


A Good Place

by LemonadeGarden



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Has Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Gangsters, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The crystal chandelier paradox, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-11 03:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13515501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonadeGarden/pseuds/LemonadeGarden
Summary: Damian Wayne is kidnapped and sent back years through time. Together, he and Father – who's only been Batman for a mere six months –must figure out how to return him to his own time.Over the course of the next week, Damian discovers that Mexican gangsters donotmess around, that social workers find Bruce annoying, that Bruce might be a little messed up, and that crystal chandeliers create the fondest memories.Oh. And Alfred hashair.





	1. 06/30/2004

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I realise there's been a long wait between this and my last fic, and I'm sorry about that. School's been busy.  
> While I was writing one of my previous fics, Yesterday's Voices, and I realised that I really enjoyed writing the dynamic between Damian and an. . . altered Bruce, (I suppose that would be the best way to put it.) So I decided to revisit that dynamic in this fic, except I flipped the tables so that Damian's the proverbial fish out of water in this one.
> 
> Either way, you can probably tell I'm a sucker for time travel/amnesia/age regression kind of tropes. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**06/30/2004.**

 

“Alfred,” Damian hears Father say, as soon as his ears have stopped ringing, “is that. . . a little boy?”

Damian blinks open his eyes. The sun is bright and glaring against his face. His skin feels tight around his eyes, his throat parched and aching. His eyes and ears and nose burn from the light speed travel. His brain feels soft and slow, like mush. 

Damian frowns. He doesn't like not being able to think clearly. He tries to blink back the fog. 

“I believe it is, master Wayne.” He hears Pennyworth say. “He seems to have run away from the circus, what with the colourful leotard and cape.”

Damian would usually try to object to that statement— his robin suit offers a perfect, cohesive blend of stealth and agility. It is possibly the farthest thing there could be from a circus costume, thank you very much, but upon opening his mouth, he finds that his throat hurts too much to talk. He tries to rub at his eyes instead, trying to wipe away the last of the wispy clouds in his brain. Except his arms ache too much to lift them to his face. The sun glares down on him, unforgiving. He groans.

“Alfred,” Father says, from somewhere above him. “I think he's in pain.”

Damian squints up at him. He can barely see Father, a blurry silhouette against the bright light of the fierce summer sun; his eyes are burning too much. He feels grass under his palms as he struggles to get up. He squints around himself, his vision blurry and myopic. He's in the front lawn of the manor. There's petunias in the flowerbeds by the fountain. Strange. Damian could have sworn this summer that Pennyworth had planted daisies.

He looks back at Father. His silhouette focuses slowly into a solid figure.

Father is staring at him, his eyes holding Damian's. But that's– that's not Father. But it also is.

Damian stares back, suddenly frightened.

“Hey,” Father says, looking blankly at him, no sign of even the slightest trace of recognition on his face at all, “are you alright?”

Very slowly, Damian sits up. Swallows, his dry throat aching. Considers the situation in front of him. Father is staring at him, bending down to see him more clearly, his hand extended forward to help him up. Pennyworth is a few feet away. Pennyworth has _hair_.

“Kid,” Father says, and startles Damian out of his thoughts, “are you okay?”

Damian wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, even though there's nothing to wipe.

“I–” he starts, and then stops. Father is looking at him expectantly. He swallows again. This is not good. Not good at all.

“May I know what year it is?” He whispers.

Father raises an eyebrow, and looks back at Pennyworth. Pennyworth frowns.

Father turns back to him and tells him what year it is. 

Damian feels a rush of cold realisation flush down his spine. His hands fist at his sides. He looks down at them. There's clumps of grass in his palms. He's pulled them out from the ground.

He looks at Father who doesn't really look like Father at all, who looks concerned and leaner and _younger_ , at the flowerbeds that should have daisies, but have petunias instead, at Pennyworth, who still has hair, at his robin suit that neither Father nor Pennyworth recognise. 

“How old are you?” Damian croaks. 

Father raises both eyebrows now. “Why do you want to know?” he says.

Damian's heart is founding furiously. “Please,” he says.

Father kneels down to Damian's level. Puts a hand to his forehead, and frowns when he realises that his temperature is normal. “You look sick,” he says. “Can you tell me where you parents are? Maybe we can–”

“Please. I need to know how old you are.” Damian whispers. This is very very bad.

Father studies him for a moment. Then, he says, “I turned twenty four this February. But why–”

Damian closes his eyes. The rest of Father's sentence fades over the sound of the blood rushing through Damian's ears. 

“Oh, no.” he says.

*

 

The boy that they found lying on the lawn is trying to look discretely around the manor. He's failing miserably at it.

Bruce looks at him warily from across the long table in the main dining hall that they’re both sitting at. Alfred's making some hot food for the boy, while Bruce is supposed to be asking him some questions. Bruce pauses, uncertain. He's never been very good with children. Especially upset looking children. That's Alfred's field.

He studies him, the little boy with the too-large robe –  _ his _ robe – over those wiry shoulders, and a grim expression on his pale face. He's studying the crystal chandelier on the ceiling steadfastly, a look of faint confusion on his face. Probably hasn't seen one like it in his entire life. Not many people have.

Bruce exhales. Might as well use it as a conversation starter.

“You like it?” He says, inclining his head towards the chandelier. “My Great grandfather had it made and ordered specially from France, for his wife's fiftieth birthday.”

The look of mild confusion from the boy's face does not wane. “It shouldn't be here.” He says.

“I'm sorry?”

“The chandelier. It shouldn't be here. I've never seen it before.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn't expect you to. You haven't come here before.”

The boy just furrows his brows. “But Fa–” he stops. Closes his eyes and shakes his head.

Bruce shifts uncomfortably. “My name is Bruce,” he says after a while, remembering introductions. “What's yours?”

The boy doesn't even acknowledge him, still looking up at the chandelier. “It shouldn't be here,” he repeats blankly.

Bruce sighs. He tries another tactic. “How did you come here?” he says.

“I didn't come. I already was.” The boy says.

“Stop speaking in riddles. You weren't there on the front lawn one minute and the next, you suddenly were. What happened?”

“If I tried to explain you would think me crazy.” The boy says.

Bruce leans forward. Between the cave in his basement and the villains he's been facing nightly for the last six months or so, he's seen plenty of crazy. “Try me,” he says, a little softer.

But the boy just shakes his head again, rubbing at his temples. The action seems familiar somehow, before he realises that  _ he _ rubs at his temple like that too.

“Look, if you could just tell me who your parents are–,”

The boy holds a hand up. He appears to be deep in thought. “Concentrating. Wait.”

Feeling a little lost, Bruce waits. He feels mildly irritated. He’s not good at this. At talking to people, at least not when he's being himself, and not Bruce Wayne: airhead millionaire. Nor does he particularly enjoy the entire process of questioning little children that emerge out of nowhere onto his front lawn. If Alfred could just ask the kid questions instead of him, everything would be so much easier.

“You said you were twenty five, yes?” The boy says. His eyes are still closed.

“Twenty four.”

The boy sighs. “Practically a child.” He mutters.

Bruce glares at him. Look who's talking. “I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

“It has a great deal to do with a lot of things. And you have no children as of now?”

“What? _No_.”

“Have you just returned from your years of studying abroad?” The boy asks.

“I– yes, almost a year ago, but how do you–” He stops himself. He frowns. Subject taking control of the interrogation.

“Stop being defensive. I'm not doing the subject taking control thing that you hate.” the boy says.

Bruce stiffens. “You can't know what I'm thinking.” He says.

“Sometimes, I can. We're very alike, in that manner.”

Bruce looks at the boy. His eyes are still closed, his hands steepled in front of his meditatively, like he's deep in thought. 

“Who  _ are _ you?” Bruce says.

The boy just shakes his head. 

Bruce leans back in his seat. He can hear Alfred from the kitchens, his faint footsteps and the clatter of the plates.

“And have you taken back control of the company from your shareholders and appointed Lucius Fox as your interim CEO, yet?” The boy says. He has a way of speaking that reminds Bruce faintly of Alfred. He sounds older than he looks.

Bruce decides to stop evading. What's the point? The kid knows everything about him anyway. “Yes. It's become clear that Lucius is one of the few shareholders that have my best interests in mind. I'm going to appoint him CEO officially next quarter.” 

The boy nods. “You're right. He does have your best interests in mind.”

There is a silence. Alfred comes in with sandwiches. He serves them in silence, and then steps back, obviously having decided to stay and listen in. 

The boy hasn't opened his eyes yet. 

Bruce steeples his fingers together, and then realises that that's exactly what the boy is doing right now, and instead flattens his hands against the table. He frowns at the boy, feeling that ugly, familiar feeling at the back of his throat. That clawing anger. He swallows, trying to tamp it down.

“You're a spy,” Bruce says to him. “you’ve been sent here by someone.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You know things about me that most people don't.”

“Who do you think sent me, then?”

Bruce shrugs, uncomfortable. The boy shouldn't be so calm, so composed. He should be– well, he should just be a _boy_. Frightened and open and maybe a little hysterical. Bruce knows by now that he's mastered the effect that he has on people. He intimidates them. But the tactic doesn't seem to be working on the boy.

“I don't know,” Bruce says. “Someone who wants to see me fail. Companies that we compete with.” The league of Assassins, more likely, Bruce thinks grimly.

The boy just snorts. “Not everything is about you, Fa–” he stops himself quickly.

“What?” Bruce says.

“What.” 

“You almost said something. What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. I– it was nothing.”

Bruce gives Alfred a look. Alfred lifts one shoulder minutely. He steps forward. 

“Would you like to take some tea, master–” Alfred pauses. “I'm afraid I don't know your name, young sir.”

For the first time, the boy opens his eyes. Bruce realises that they're a pale, clear shade of blue. An unusual feature, given his complexion. He holds Bruce's eyes for a moment, and Bruce can't help but stare back. Then he looks away, at Alfred, at his plate of sandwiches.

“I'm Damian,” the boy says. “And I'd like a cup of Earl Grey, please. Two sugars, no milk.”

Alfred hums approvingly. “Earl grey. A man of taste.”

Damian smiles a little, and all of a sudden he does look like the young boy that he really is. “I know,” he says.

*

 

It all starts eight days after Mikey Morales gets put away, when stupid Drake goes and gets himself stupidly shot while trying to stop a drug store robbery during patrol.

What an imbecile.

Damian sighs loudly, dragging Drake's semi-conscious body towards the batmobile, while Father takes care of the rest of the robbers.

“If you could at least  _ try _ to not get yourself killed at an interval of every two minutes, we would all be much better off.” He mutters.

“Shut— _up_ ,” Drake mumbles, gasping. Damian looks at Drake. He's starting to bleed from his arm again, despite the pressure that Father had applied on it, and the gauze bandage. He can see Drake's suit sleeve going dark with blood. He swears.

“Walk faster, you dolt. If you bleed out Father is going to blame _me_ , as always.”

“How nice of you to be concerned,” Drake chokes out, and then cries out in pain when Damian shoves him into the passenger seat of the batmobile.

“ _Goddamnit_! Be a little fucking gentler!” He yells.

“Sorry.” Damian says. “You're not exactly easy to carry, you know. Perhaps easing up on the whole milk in your coffee would be a good idea.”

Drake glares at him, clutching at his arm. “I can't _believe_ – I drink my coffee black.”

“Oh, like your soul?” 

Drake attempts to lunge at him despite the bleeding arm, and Damian ducks easily.

“Ha,” he crows, leaning casually against the car door. “Is that all you can do?”

“Damian.” Comes a stern voice. “Enough.”

Damian looks up. Father is walking swiftly towards the batmobile. There's blood on the gloves of his gauntlets. He's taken care of the drug store robbers, that's for sure. He comes up to the passenger seat door, kneeling beside Damian to be on eye-level with Drake. He surveys the damage, looking at Drake's arm.

“Tim,” he says softly. “Are you alright?”

Drake sucks in a harsh breath, closing his eyes. “I think so,” he mumbles. “'s just a flesh wound.”

“Symptoms?” Father says.

Another deep breath. “Dizziness. Nausea. Rapid heart beat. I can't– I can't breathe very well.”

Father nods. “Blood loss. We need to get you to the cave.”

He rises again, going over to the other side of the batmobile. “Patrol is over,” he says to Damian. “We’re going home. Get in the car.”

Damian frowns. “Unacceptable. Just because Drake got himself hurt doesn't mean  _ I _ have to suffer for it.”

Father sighs. “Damian. I'm not letting you patrol alone.”

“That would be unwise. We still have more than half of our patrol route to go, and Penguin's thugs have been acting up lately.” There's a power vacuum in the cocaine business, now that Mikey Morales is out of the game.

“It doesn't matter. Spoiler and Red Hood can handle things if it comes to it.”

“But they're not even in our patrol zone!”

“I'm not letting you patrol alone. Especially not when the Morales’ people have you on their hitlist.” Father's voice is like steel. “End of discussion.”

Damian glares at him. He can feel his shoulders stiffen, something that always happens before he gets in a fight. “I'm not a child. I can handle this myself.” 

“You  _ are _ a child, Robin. I expect you to listen to me when I say–”

Drake mumbles something intelligible, his brow furrowed with the pain. Father cuts himself off, looking at Drake. He looks back up at Damian, his eyes remote behind the flat white lenses of the cowl. 

“I need to take him to the cave now. Are you coming or are you not?” 

Damian stays where he is, outside the car. Stubborn.

Father's jaw works. “Fine.” He says finally. “Do what you want.” He gets in the car, strapping Drake in, and with the flick of a dial and a whoosh of steam, the automated doors of the batmobile start to close. 

“Drake slows us down.” Damian tells him, looking at Father as the doors start to descend.

Father's mouth goes hard. “He's saved both our lives plenty of times. And he's your brother. We always take care of our own.”

Damian shrugs with one shoulder. “I could take him in a fight.”

Father gives him a look. “I highly doubt that.” He says.

Before Damian can open his mouth to speak, outraged, Father says, “Besides, life doesn't boil down to who could beat you in a fight. There's more to people than that. There's more to  _ you  _ than that.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Spare me the sentimental talk, Father. I have work to do.”

But Father just gives him a sad look. “One day, Damian,” he says, “you're going to have to learn empathy. To care about people. To put their needs before yours. I hope that day comes soon. I really do.” 

The doors shut, sealed. The batmobile glides off down the road, and into the night.

Damian stands there for a second, feeling a little stung.  _ Learn _ empathy. What does  _ that _ mean? Of  _ course _ he has empathy. He cares for Father, and Grayson, and all his pets, doesn't he? And Pennyworth is fine too. And he distinctly remembers giving five dollars to a homeless man on the street outside the WE building three months ago, even though he was getting late for his violin lessons all the way across town. 

He does have empathy.

He huffs out an annoyed breath, sweeping his cape out from behind him, and shoots out some grappling rope to a building overhead. Stupid _Drake_ , and Stupid Father.

Two hours, a foiled robbery and a botched arson attempt later, and Damian is still thinking about what Father said.

Empathy. Just because he thinks Drake isn't fit for the field doesn't mean he doesn't have empathy. He may not like Drake, or Todd, or Kent– some of the people that Father works with, but that doesn't mean– doesn't mean he doesn't have _feelings_. He can tolerate Drake. He can be nice. 

Damian frowns, and sits down on the side of the curb. He sounds defensive. Even in his own head.

He sighs, pulling back the hood that usually hangs over his head. The usual enthusiasm and vigour he feels for patrol is gone today, for some reason. Perhaps he is just tired. That's all. He's just a little tired. Maybe he'll feel better if he just cuts patrol short and returns to the manor, and asks Alfred to make him some warm–

A zap of lightning suddenly hits him square on the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He falls flat on the pavement behind him, his head taking the worst of the impact. A zing of pain goes through his skull. Instinct takes over and he makes himself get up into a defensive stance, hands automatically raised up to chest level, palms curled into fists. Years of training drilled into him to protect himself.

He looks around himself warily. There's only darkness. Darkness, and an empty street.

“Who's there?” He calls out.

He is answered by yet more silence. The faint howling of the wind.

He turns around, trying to looks through the darkness, trying to make out indistinguishable shapes in the night that the dim street lights do little to illuminate. 

“Who's there?” He says again, feeling impatient. He doesn't have time for games. “I'm going to find you eventually.”

A voice to his right laughs suddenly and derisively. “Hardly likely.” 

Damian whips around, his hand going up to the belt around his waist, holding onto a batarang that feels cool and reassuring in his palm. 

“Where are you?” He demands. “Stop hiding and show yourself, coward.”

“Says the little boy in the colourful outfit, clutching a piece of metal to make him feel better.” The voice is on his left now. Damian turns again. He can smell it in the air. Almost taste it. That sharp, metallic thrum of electricity. Thousands of watts of power. Concentrated, focused into one point. Into one man.

No, not electricity.

Lightning. 

“Flash,” Damian says, relaxing, feeling annoyed at the whole charade. He's probably just here to talk with Father.

“Close, but no cigar.” The voice says, from right behind him this time, and he has no time to react before he's shot with another sharp zing of electricity through his chest. He gasps, clutching at his chest, his arms fisting at his suit. He scrambles away, crawling back towards the curb, but the Reverse-Flash is faster, too fast, and he shoots electricity through Damian's body again, an arc of light and heat and power so strong that it makes Damian's spine arch helplessly, makes him convulse with pain. He can smell burning hair and flesh.

The Reverse Flash is laughing quietly, walking towards him leisurely.

Damian tries to get up. The electric shocks make his brain feel soft. Like soup. He stumbles, and falls. Gets up again.

“Why are you here?” He rasps. “Why in Gotham?” 

Reverse-Flash is still walking towards him. Every step forward he takes is too loud, in Damian's ears. It sounds like thunder. Damian scrambles backwards, still half on the ground, the asphalt of the empty street scraping on his elbows and palms.

“On business,” Reverse Flash says. He's coming closer and closer still. Damian knows he won't be able to outrun him. Perhaps, if he could call Father, or inform the others. . .

“What business?” Damian says, stalling. He slips his hand discreetly into his belt, trying to feel for the communicator he keeps in his belt there.

“I’ve been paid an obscene amount of money by one Pedro Morales. Do you know who that is?”

Damian’s face falls. “I got his son locked up.” He says.

Reverse Flash smiles. “Gold star for the student in the front row.”

He finds the communicator in his belt, feeling through the darkness so he can find the button that will call the cave. But all of a sudden there's a whirlwind of movement, and he's knocked down on the road again. He looks up, and the communicator has been neatly crushed underfoot, sparking erratically, near Reverse-Flash’s boots.

Reverse Flash makes a noise in disaproval. “Little Robin,” he says chastisingly. “did you really think getting away would be quite that simple?”

Damian takes a deep calming breath. He can handle this. He _can_ handle this. “So you're a contract killer now.” he says, sounding more confident than he feels. “How the mighty have fallen.”

Reverse Flash laughs, a sharp, acidic noise. “Oh, I'm not going to _kill_ you.” 

Damian stands up. “No?”

“No. Mr. Morales had very specific instructions for me.”

“Really. And what were they?”

Reverse-Flash smiles again, and in another blur of speed and lightning, he lunges at him. Damian claws back at him, the batarang in hand, but he's too slow. He's disarmed before he can blink, and suddenly they're hurtling across the city, across the river, the water spraying across Damian's face, across the boutiques near Bell tower, to its outskirts, to the manor.

Reverse Flash stops suddenly, and Damian's neck almost breaks with the whiplash. He's dropped unceremoniously to the front lawn, where he proceeds to vomit out the entire contents of his stomach. He clutches at the grass involuntarily, pulling away clumps of it. 

The Reverse-Flash bends down the his level, sitting back on the heels of his still smoking boots. He chuckles sympathetically. “Your first time experiencing Speed, huh?”

“Get _away_ from me,” Damian hisses, trying to crawl away. 

“Real Speed, I mean. Not the so-called super speed that your friend Wally claims to have. Or his uncle, Barry. I'm faster than all of them, you know.” Reverse-Flash says, walking after him. He puts a foot down on Damian's back, increasing the pressure slowly until Damian cries out.

“The signal to your communicator led here. Any reason why?” Reverse-Flash looks around. “Bruce Wayne's manor? What could that man possibly have to do with you?”

Damian remains stubbornly silent. The foot on his back presses down heavier still. He grits his teeth. 

“No matter.” Reverse Flash says lightly. “I don't particularly care.” He hauls Damian up again. Damian stays limp in his arms. He knows he can’t win. Maybe this is it. This is the day he'll die. He closes his eyes.

“What are you going to do with me?” He says.

“Well. Mr. Morales acknowledges that while you didn't kill his son, you _did_ put him in jail. Life without parole, and Mikey Morales is only 21. That's _harsh_. Now, Pedro Morales, he doesn't kill children, he won't stoop that far, but he does want you to face the same punishment.”

Damian frowns. “He wants to put me in a cell?”

Reverse-Flash smiles. “He wants to imprison you in a place where you are unloved and unknown. A place where no one cares about you. A place you won't ever be able to get out of.” Reverse-Flash starts to break into a run, still carrying him. Damian struggles to wriggle out of his grip. “A prison in the walls of Time.”

Damian opens his mouth to speak, but Reverse-Flash drags him up viciously by his cape, and they're hurtling again, not through space, but Time. The bottom promptly drops out of Damian's mind.They're going fast, so fast that Damian can't speak, can't think, can't _breathe_. He can't see through the void, the tunnel of viscous air and heat and dark that they're speeding – or are they falling? It feels like they're falling – through. He gasps for breath but there's nothing to breath but liquid light and pure heat and his lungs feel as if they might explode. He blinks open his eyes and he realises he can see _everything_. The past and the present and the future and the rippling fabric of space-time itself and it's too much so he squeezes his eyes shut closed again but everything is sudden and loud and now now _now_.

A loud pop.

And then, just as quick as it happened, it is all gone.

When he blinks open his eyes again, and he finds himself on a lawn, it's daylight. The clumps of grass in his hand are still there. He looks up. 

“Alfred,” says a voice, “is that. . . a little boy?”

*

 

Bruce looks at the kid in the robe that's too big for him from the doorway. He sighs. 

“He's not giving me anything, Alfred. Except his name. He won't tell me who his parents are, where he lives, nothing.”

Alfred doesn't look up from the tea he's brewing. They're in the kitchen. Bruce tells himself he's not here because he's avoiding the boy. He can smell cinnamon in the air. Alfred must be making cookies.

Alfred looks up now from the kettle, and at Bruce.

“Perhaps you should be more worried about how he suddenly teleported into the petunias, Master Wayne.”

Bruce frowns. “And his clothes, Al. He looks like he's in a Halloween costume.”

“I'd expect you to be the last person to comment on one's clothing choices,” Alfred says in an undertone, no doubt referring to Bruce's. . . nightly activities. 

He frowns again. Nightly activities. That just makes him sound creepy.

“Maybe we should call Social Services.” He says. “They could help, right?”

“Maybe.” Alfred says. 

Bruce leans against the counter, his shoulders slumping. “What?”

Alfred just shakes his head, and hands him a cup of coffee that he was making alongside the tea. “Pardon my language, sir, but you're bloody terrible at conducting normal conversations with people.”

Bruce takes it, (both the coffee and Alfred's insult,) scrubbing at his face. “Thanks Al.” He says, and looks back at the boy sitting in the dining hall wearily. “I'm just– I'm no good with kids. You'll have to talk to him.”

A raised eyebrow from Alfred sends Bruce back out of the kitchen and into the dining hall, fast. Sometimes it's easy to forget who's in charge. 

“Hi, again,” he says, sitting down in the chair next to Damian’s.

Damian just raises a derisive eyebrow.

“Look,” he says to Damian, running a hand through his hair tiredly, “I can call someone from social services if you–”

“No,” Damian says with such intensity that Bruce is momentarily surprised. 

Bruce blinks. He finds a lot of children from bad situations during patrol that don't let him take them to the police station, or call social services. Children he finds in abandoned buildings and shacks under highways. Damian’s looking at him the way they look at him. Shifty eyes and tense shoulders. He  _ is _ terrified, Bruce realises. He's just not showing it in the way that most people do. 

Bruce pauses, trying to figure out the best way to handle this. He finds that often the most effective thing to do with those scared children living under highways that say they don't want help is to just ask _why_. Children are inherently honest. This one shouldn't be any different.

“Alright,” Bruce says. “Why?”

“You can't do anything differently now. Or it may change the future. The future that I'm from.” 

Bruce quickly reconsiders his 'children are inherently honest’ theory. 

“Uh. Okay.” He says, after a while. “Okay. I'm just going to go call Alfred now. He'll talk to you. Alright?”

Damian sighs. “Sit down. . .Bruce. You need to listen to this.” He says Bruce's name oddly, and with hesitation, almost. 

Bruce frowns, but he sits.

“Look,” Damian says, “I'm aware of how this will sound. If someone told me all of these things before I even knew that someone with the abilities to manipulate the speed force existed, before I even knew the speed force existed, I would have laughed them off. You would be well within your rights to do the same. But I'm asking you to please listen. I don't have any other options, and I’m afraid that only you can help me.”

Bruce opens his mouth to speak, but Damian cuts him off. “I was kidnapped and sent thirteen years to the past against my will. Reverse Flash did it, but you don't know him yet, because he doesn't exist yet, because the Flash doesn't exist yet. Well. I'm sure the Flash _exists_ , so to speak, but according to my calculations he cannot be more than sixteen years old right now, and has not been struck by lightning yet, and definitely does _not_ possess the ability to manipulate the time stream. So when it comes to trying to figure out how to return to my own time, you are perhaps, at the risk of sounding slightly histrionic, my only hope.”

He says all of this in a decidedly casual and very un-histrionic manner.

Bruce blinks. Damian is staring at him expectantly, obviously waiting for him to react in some manner.

So Bruce blinks again. “Right. I’m going to call Alfred now. My butler.” He says finally. “He's made, uh, cookies.” 

Damian sighs, rubbing at his temples again. “You do that.” He says.

*

 

Damian glumly bites into one of the cookies from the plate in front of him. 

“It's chocolate and cinnamon.” Pennyworth tells him kindly. “Made with a secret ingredient handed down through generations in my family. Fiercely guarded.”

Damian realises that Pennyworth is trying to make small talk to make him feel more comfortable. It's not really working. Damian is currently trying very hard not to scream. Or hyperventilate. Or possibly both. He's never getting back home. 

Damian takes another doleful bite. “It's Mayonnaise.” he says dully.

“Beg pardon?”

“The secret ingredient. It's mayonnaise. You don't use eggs. Makes it taste creamier or something.” He considers the plate of cookies in front of him. They're cookies from the past. Perhaps by eating them he's causing some kind of elephantine paradox that will vaporize him in a matter of seconds. 

Besides, they were probably meant for someone else. Most likely for Fath- Bruce. For Bruce. He can't keep calling him Father anymore. It might slip out, and then he won't have to wait for a plate of cookies to alter the course of time, it just will, all by itself. And he'll be vaporized. Again. 

He sighs, taking another bite. “Mayonnaise.” He says again. “It works.”

Pennyworth narrows his eyes. “And how would you possibly know that?”

“I told you, I'm from the future.” 

“Yes, but I would assume that not everyone from the future would know my secret ingredient. Or is it going to be displayed on holo-billboards everywhere in the year 2030, and you see it while you're cruising down the road in your flying car?”

Damian sighs. “You don't believe me.”

“You're not making your case very convincing, unfortunately.”

“I don't live in the year 2030. Well. One day I will. Hopefully. But not right now. It's not so far ahead as that. And no, not everyone from the future knows your chocolate and cinnamon cookies recipe. But I do, because we're. . . close.”

“Oh?” Pennyworth says, and it's clear enough from his tone that he's only humouring him, “I see. Are you my grandson then?” He says, chuckling dryly. 

Damian swallows. It's almost dangerously close to the truth. 

Pennyworth raises an eyebrow.

Damian clears his throat. “No. No, I'm not. But I– I work with Bruce.” 

The eyebrow inches steadily up Pennyworth's forehead. 

“I help him with Patrol,” Damian explains, “with his Batman work.” He says, looking meaningfully at Pennyworth. Maybe the fact that he knows Father's biggest secret will convince him that he's really telling the truth.

“I don't know what a bat-man is,” Pennyworth says blandly, ever the expert actor.

“Look, we don't have time for this–”

“Time for what, master Damian?” 

Damian gets up from his seat, pushing the plate of cookies away from him. “Fine.” He glares. “Fine. I've tried to explain things, I've tried to be nice, I’ve eaten about a thousand  cookies, I've even said please. I'm done with all that now. Follow me.” He says, and walks out of the dining room, and into the hallway.

“Master Damian?” He hears Alfred call out from behind him, jogging slightly to catch up with him. “This is private property, really, you can't–”

“That,” Damian points to the corner of one of the hall tables. It's slightly chipped. “Bruce cut himself on that table when he was running down the hall one day when he was five. He still has the scar. It's on his forearm.”

He walks further, quickening his pace. He can hear Alfred's swift footsteps behind him, struggling to keep up. 

“There,” he points to a smallish watercolour painting of the manor on the hallway wall. “Bruce's mother made that when she was twenty six. A year after he was born. She made it for his father.”

He strides ahead, to an innocuous grandfather clock. Or however innocuous a grandfather clock  _ can _ be, even if it's in a manor. He levels a look at Pennyworth. “I know what's behind there.” 

“The wall?” Pennyworth says, still looking convincingly blank.

Damian shakes his head. “A natural cave under the foundations of the building. Bruce uses it as his base, for conduction vigilante work. He calls it the batcave.” He reaches up, turning the hands of the clock to 10:48. 

“He fell into one of the cave's under the manor when he was a child. You know why I know all these things? He told me. Or he will tell me. In the future.” Damian says. There's a grinding sound of metal against stone, and a series of locks and gears clicking open one by one, and then the false facade of the grandfather clock opens outward, like a door. There are metal stairs heading to a level below. 

Damian looks at Pennyworth. “Now, do you believe me?”

A pause.

“Halfway, perhaps.” Pennyworth says. 

“Good.” Damian says. “Where's Bruce?”

Pennyworth nods at the stairs going down to the cave. “You were on the right track so far.”

Damian smiles a little, realisation striking him. “He's in the gym, making a punching bag’s life miserable, because he can't understand something and he's trying to figure it out. Some things don't change.”

“No,” Pennyworth says looking fondly down the stairs, as if he can somehow see Bruce down there, “Maybe not.”

Midway through his descent down the steps, and into the cave, Damian pauses, turning back to look at Alfred. “There aren't any flying cars in the future,” he says. “But Bruce owns a 2017 Lotus Elise, and if he was here now he'd say it was more or less the same thing.”

Pennyworth smiles, wry. “That does sound like him.” he says.

  
  


The batcave is the same. . . and also different. The wide array of screens, monitors and panels he's used to seeing at the computer console are all absent. There's one large flat screen monitor. A keyboard and a modem. A printer. That's it. It would almost be funny if it wasn't also a little scary.

Damian looks around some more, at the med bay – which looks more or less the same –, at the parking spaces near the tunnel exit, which have only one batmobile, and a single sleek, black motorcycle. At the armoury, where all the batarangs look larger and heavier than he's used to, and the grapple guns look clunkier. 

It's like being in an alternate universe. 

It's almost similar to the Batcave he knows, but it's different enough to put him on edge. Like the uncanny valley, locationally speaking.

Damian frowns, looking around. Something though, something important is missing. He can't quite figure out what it is.

He looks at an empty spot near the console, and that's when it strikes him. He feels stupid for not realising it earlier. The glass case with the Todd's old Robin suit. Of course it wouldn't be here yet.

Damian looks at the curiously empty spot, something like a mixture of dread and excitement curling up in his stomach. Jason Todd is not dead yet. He would be hardly seven or eight now. No more than that. He could so easily just  _ tell _ Father, just tell him not to let him go to Ethiopia when the time comes, or not to leave the Batmobile parked in crime alley at all that day, and maybe then Todd would _never_ become Robin, and never have to _die_ , never go through all that he had to. . .

Damian closes his eyes, scrubbing at his face. “Of course you can't, you idiot.” He whispers to himself. Without Todd's death, Father would never meet Drake, and as much as he loathes Drake, even he has to admit that he's an essential part of the future. 

So now, he's just going to have to let Todd die. Damian sighs. He just wants to go back home, to his room in the manor, press his cheek against Titus's warm muzzle, talk to his Father – his  _ actual _ Father, and not this stranger – about Patrol routes and play video games with Grayson. 

He frowns again. Playing video games with Grayson? A childish thought to have. He should be focusing more on solving the problems ahead, and less on sentimental nonsense. 

He strides with renewed purpose towards the gym area, looking for Bruce. 

As he nears the gym, he can hear the familiar rhythmic sound of fists on a punching bag. Damian rounds up to the corner, and leans against one the stone walls of the cave, and watches Batman do what he does best.

He's running through a standard Muay Thai heavy bag drill, Damian knows because he's seen Father do it a thousand times before, but this isn't like those drills at all. This is something different. 

Bruce trains like he has a personal vendetta against the air around him. There's none of that calm, centred energy he usually channels into training. His form is perfect, of course, but it still somehow looks wrong. He's sticking to every rule in the book, his technique is exemplary, but he somehow looks like a drunk brawler in the midst of a throwdown at a bar in the late hours of night.

He fights like he hates doing it.

Still, it's perfectly effective, as far as Damian can tell, and he makes sure he tells Bruce so.

Bruce braces stops the wildly swinging punching bag with a hand, looking at Damian. “I’m glad you like it,” he says, panting. Doesn’t ask how Damian got here. Doesn't ask how he knew about the cave.He smiles instead – the kind of smile that gets people locked away in rooms with soft walls – pushing some of his sweat-damp hair away from his eyes. 

“I'm going to figure you out.” He says. 

Damian says nothing. 

“You can't possibly have known all of this. The cave, the Batman, all this talk about the future. Someone told you to come here and do it.” He looks back at the punching bag. 

“I can spar with you, if you'd like.” Damian says.

“Is someone forcing you to do this?” Bruce says. “Threatening to hurt you?” 

“I was trained, from a very small age. I could swing a sword when I was two. I could spar with you.” Damian says again.

Bruce presses his palm flat against a button on the stone wall, and the punching bag is hauled up by a mechanism and retracts into a hatch in the ceiling. He starts to undo the tape around his knuckles. “A year ago, I defected from an. . . organisation, for the lack of a better word. They taught me a lot, but I came to recognise that they were not good people. Are you understanding what I'm trying to say to you?”

Damian stills. Bruce is talking about the league of Assassins, he realises. This is not good. If he learned how intimately connected he once was with the League, he might figure out who he was, and that would. . . not be good. 

“I learned how to fight before I learnt to speak,” Damian says, instead of answering his question. Maybe he can divert his attention. “We practice together all the time, you know. I work with you. We make a good team.” 

Bruce steps closed to him, looking at him earnestly. “The leader of the organisation though, he had very high hopes for me. He was. . . disappointed when he learned that I wanted to return home. He wouldn't let me leave. I had to go through a great number of his men before I could escape. His daughter and I, we were – close.  Did he set you up to do this?”

“Krav Maga,” Damian says desperately, trying to change the subject, “I was taught Krav Maga at the age of four. I could–”

Bruce bends down to Damian’s level, his eyes sharp and knowing, and Damian worries that he's seeing right through him. “His name was Ra’s Al Ghul. He wanted me to join him, be immortal with him, a never ending reign of terror with me by his side. He was furious when I refused. Who made you do this? Was it him?”

“I can help you. I really can. I'm skilled enough. I was made to scale cliffs when I was six. Some were so high I almost passed out because of the thin air, I–”

“Who made you do it?” Bruce interrupts. “Talia Al Ghul?” 

A beat. Damian swallows. He can't possibly know. He can't. 

“W-who made me climb the cliffs?”

Bruce furrows his brow. “No. Who sent you here. Was it Talia?”

“Oh,” Damian says. A wave of relief washes over him. “No. No, no one sent me. I told you. Someone kidnapped me and sent me back in time.”

Bruce closes his eyes, sighing. “Look. You can't keep–”

“Wait,” Damian says, and takes something out from the pocket of the robe Bruce had given him. He's still wearing his Robin costume underneath; he's not risking taking it off and losing the only other proof of who he is. 

Bruce frowns at the contents of Damian's extended hand. “That's just some grass.” he says. 

“If you cross-analyze it with some of the grass in your lawns, you'll see that it's the same, but it's thirteen years older.” He looks down at the grass clumps. “It's a good thing I pulled it out from the roots."

Bruce takes the clump of mud and grass from his hand, looking at it. 

“That was in my robe, all this time.” He says.

Damian smirks. “Sorry.”

Bruce just shakes his head. “I'll – I'll take a look at this under a microscope.” He sighs. “Of all the strangest things to happen.”

“Perfect.” Damian says. “I'm assuming you'd like me to find a different place to sleep until then. Just tell Pennyworth that I'm going to sleep in one of the safehouses tonight.”

Bruce frowns. “No. No, you can sleep in one of the guest rooms. Even if you  _ are _ an assassin that's been sent to kill me in my sleep, Alfred would never let me turn a child away from my home. And I'm really not in the mood to get yelled at.”

Damian looks at him, bemused. “You. . . get yelled at.”

Bruce picks up his gym bag, heading back to the stairs. Damian follows after him.

“Have you seen Alfred?” Bruce says, “It's a miracle that _you_ haven't been yelled at yet. He can make inanimate objects feel bad for disobeying him.” 

It occurs to Damian that Bruce is actually complaining about authority figures. And being told what to do. The irony of that is almost too good to be true. He grins. 

Bruce looks at him sharply. “What.”

Damian shakes his head. “Nothing.” He says. He smiles.

Bruce is still looking at him. Wary, this time. They make their way up the stairs, and down the hallway, back towards the dining room. “Look,” he says. “Don't make me regret this. I'll test your grass samples in the morning, but if tonight I find you over my bed with a knife in your hand, I'm warning you, I'm trained in a hundred and twenty-seven forms of martial arts and I won't hesitate to cut you down, child or not.”

“I know,” Damian says. “You're still as dramatic as ever, you know. I'm rather hungry. Is there any dinner?”

Bruce gives him another sharp look. A pause. “You should be more scared of me.”

“And yet I'm not,” Damian says, sounding not a little bit smug. “Isn't that wild.”

Bruce just sighs. “We have lasagna. And chicken sandwiches, I think.”

“I'm a vegetarian.” Damian says.

Bruce just sighs again.

*  
  


That night, Damian lies in bed, in one of the guest rooms of the manor. The Robin suit has been neatly cleaned and folded by Pennyworth, and Damian's keeping it under his pillow. It's not something he can risk losing.

The room is unfamiliar and dark, blending in his mind with the rest of the spare rooms in the manor. His usual room, the big loft next to Father's on the the third floor, is far away, in the other wing.

He misses it. He misses Titus, and Grayson and the video games. He sniffles a little, wiping at his face with the corner of his borrowed pajamas’ sleeve. He misses Father, even though he's just a wing away, sleeping in his bed. He misses Pennyworth, and his cat. He misses Drake. 

He wipes at his face again, and he turns over, closing his eyes and trying to get some sleep.

 


	2. 07/01/2004

**07/01/2004.**

 

The two pairs of eyes trying not to look at him during him during breakfast are achingly obvious.

He rolls his eyes, putting down his piece of toast back on his plate. “Go ahead. Ask it.”

“Ask what?” enquires Pennyworth politely, pouring him a glass of orange juice, and pretending to be oblivious. Except for the whole hair thing, he hasn't changed much. 

Damian rolls his eyes again. “You analyzed the grass samples,” he says, pointing to Bruce, “and now you know that I'm telling the truth. So go ahead. Ask me what you're like in the future. If you have a wife, or a paunch,” he looks at Pennyworth, “or still have hair.”

Pennyworth frowns. “Now, what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Bruce pauses meaningfully for a bit, looking at Damian. Or perhaps he's just chewing his toast. Finally he says, “While it's true that the bacteria samples taken from the grass you provided to me showed. . . interesting results, I'm still not entirely convinced.” He says.

“Oh for _god's_ sake,” Damian mutters. “What more would you like? A handwritten note from your future self verifying my identity as a reliable and trustworthy ally?”

“That would be ideal, yes.” Bruce says, sipping some orange juice.

Damian glares at him from across the table. His father was insufferable. Is insufferable. Had been?

Whatever the case, it’s really beginning to grate on Damian's nerves. He huffs. “I don't know what else I must do for you to believe me.”

“Unfortunately for you, quite a bit more. I'm afraid it's a very unbelievable prospect.” Pennyworth says. “Now, I believe we were talking about my future self’s hair.”

“Really Al? Now?” Bruce says, at the same time that Damian mutters, “Or lack thereof.”

“ _ Excuse _ me?” Pennyworth says. 

“You heard me,” Damian says, angling his chin up defiantly. “You have, although, perfected the art of the combover.”

“ _No_ ,” Pennyworth says, sounding mildly horrified.

“Yes.” 

“Look,” Bruce says, scrubbing his face. “Fine. Let's say I believe you. Let's say you _have_ come from the future, and you want to get back. What do you expect me to do? I don't have a time machine, or a . . . backwards flash or whatever you were talking about.”

“Reverse-Flash.” Damian corrects. “And you don't need him, or a time machine. I have a plan.” 

“Well?” Bruce says.

“We go to the Morales’ base of operations. We find some kind of evidence of their crimes. We get Pedro Morales arrested via aforementioned incriminating evidence. He rots in jail for the next fifteen to twenty years on drug and human trafficking charges and he isn't around when I arrest his son thirteen years later, and he can't pay Reverse-Flash any money and send me back in time, and so none of this happens. Clean cut, simple. We do this quickly and efficiently, and we manage not to mess up the timeline anymore than it's already been damaged.”

“The timeline's been damaged.” Bruce repeats hollowly.

“Yes. Because I'm here, and now that you know things that you weren't supposed to know until the future, you will likely make different decisions to change the outcome of future events that you should have no knowledge of, thus changing my future, and by possible extension, me.”

“Right.” Bruce says, blinking. “I understand.” He says, in a way that Damian has come to recognise means that he doesn't understand at all.

Damian sighs. “Alright. Let me provide an example.” He points at Pennyworth.

“Let's say that later today, as a result of the conversation I had with Pennyworth, he goes out to the shops and decides to purchase some anti-balding hair cream.”

“I would _never_ ,” Pennyworth sniffs, offended.

Damian holds up a hand. “Let's just say for the sake of the argument, that you do. Except on the way back home, you get hit by a car and you die. And Bruce gives up on being Batman and leaves Gotham forever.” 

“That's rather macabre.” Pennyworth says. Bruce frowns.

“Or,” Damian continues, “while you’re at the the supermarket, you decide to buy a few supplies for more cookies for Bruce, because _I_ already ate all of them, and in the dairy aisle you bump into Vicki Vale, who's buying some blueberry yoghurt, and the two of you get talking, and you eventually invite her back to the manor, where she and Bruce proceed to have dinner together, and over the course of a few years fall madly in love and have babies together. And then he quits being Batman forever. And so on. The possibilities of an alternate future with vast differences are endless, because one small variation leads to another and on and on until the future is so unrecognisable in regards to the original that it creates a sort of paradox.” He pauses, checking to look at their expressions to see if they look lost. “Do you understand now?” he says.

“Yes.” Bruce says, and “Is he actually married to miss Vale?” Pennyworth says.

“No.” Damian says. 

“A shame.” Pennyworth says, sounding wistful. “I rather liked miss Vale.”

Bruce just eats more toast. “I don't think I'm ready for babies.” He says.

Damian coughs into his orange juice rather vigorously, and Pennyworth has to pat his back quite hard to get him to stop.

“Anyway,” Bruce says, “speaking of babies, how old are you?” 

“Thirteen years. And two months.” Damian says, wiping orange juice from his mouth.

“That's a neat little coincidence.” Bruce says, looking not at all like he thinks it's a neat little coincidence.

“Yes.” Damian says weakly. 

A pause.

“Okay.” Bruce says. “I'll do it.”

“You'll do what?”

“I'll help you track down Pedro Morales. He's starting to run with the big dogs anyway, and Falcone and his lot aren't happy about it. There's been a lot of gang violence between the two groups near the East end, as of late.”

The East end was Morales’ home turf. “So helping me on this case would be a win-win.” Damian says.

“Yes.” Bruce says. “But I have rules.” 

“I know all the rules.” Damian says, rolling his eyes. He starts to count them off with his fingers. “No guns. No killing. No torture. No physical assault without reason. No physical assault to minors, only restraining and apprehending. I've been through the drills, trust me.”

“I don't.” Bruce says sharply, and despite himself, Damian feels a little bit of a twinge in his chest at that.

Bruce points at his untouched toast and eggs. “I see you're not hungry. I'm not either.” He stands up, the chair scraping against the wood panelled floor as it is pushed back. “Meet me in the gym in five. We're going to spar together. I want to review your skill set before I take a child into the field.”

“Very well.” Damian says, knowing how futile it would be to argue.

Bruce heads out of the dining room, leaving Damian alone with Pennyworth. 

Pennyworth looks at the two abandoned, almost full plates of food. “Why,” he says, “do I even bother.”

Damian shrugs. Pennyworth makes a noise of disgust, shaking his head. “Feel free to clean up these dishes while I make a trip to the grocery store,” he holds up his hands as a gesture of appeasement at Damian's sharp look. “A  _ premeditated _ trip to the grocery store.” He says. “One I planned day before yesterday, before you made the perspicacious decision of landing in my petunias. No butterfly effects, whatsoever.”

“Tt. Fine.” Damian relents, after a pause.

“With any hope,” Pennyworth mutters on his way out, “I shall run into miss Vale in the dairy aisle. I can't speak for Bruce, but I for one, am very much ready for him to settle down and father a few children.”

Damian snorts. If only he knew. 

“I'm not washing these dishes!” He yells down the hallway that Pennyworth went through, as an afterthought.

“No shouting in the hallways!” Pennyworth yells back, muffled.

Damian sighs, staring at the plates and glasses. Then he picks them up, and goes over to the sink.

*

 

They spar in near silence, only stopping when Bruce gives Damian a bit of advice, telling him to watch his left, or not to favour his right so much, or to stop telegraphing his side-kicks. 

This all, much to Damian's annoyance.

“I will have you know that I am a trained professional in thirty five different forms of fighting. And I can use a katana.”

Bruce is unimpressed. He dodges Damian's left uppercut. “You kick with your left leg like an eleven year old.”

Damian glares, jabbing at Bruce's spleen with two fingers, a technique he learned at the secret temple of Hastipura, a gift bequeathed unto him by a thousand year old monk when he was journeying around the world, at the age of nine.

Bruce twists Damian's fingers, and uses his momentum to twist his arm behind him. Damian cries out, half in pain and half in surprise.

“But that technique, I learned it from–”

“Yeah.” Bruce says. “A thousand year old monk in Hastipura. I know. He taught me the counter move after I bought him a six pack from a liquor store from the nearest village over. I saw him do a spirit ceremony with four beers in him. The man can really hold his alcohol.” Bruce releases his arm.

Damian scowls, rubbing at his shoulder. “I was too young to go into the liquor store.”

Bruce smiles his rare smile. “That’s unfortunate.” he says, and punches Damian in the gut. Damian stumbles.

“The key to winning a fight isn't to be stronger than your opponent,” Bruce says. He aims a right hook at his solar plexus that Damian only narrowly misses. 

“It's to be smarter. I know.” Damian says, pulling himself back up to a fighting stance. “We've done all of this before.”

Bruce nods, and then sweeps Damian's leg out from underneath him with a roundhouse kick.

“Then you should have anticipated that kick,” Bruce says, his chest heaving from the exertion of the last half hour.

Damian scowls, getting back up to his feet. He does a running jump, aiming to push off the floor and then plant his foot into Bruce's chest, but Bruce neatly disarms him with an elbow to his stomach, and flips him neatly over his shoulder and back down onto the mats below.

Damian scowls again. “You fight . . .   _differently_.” He says, to the hand that's offering to help him up. He refuses it, stubborn, rolling to his feet on his own instead. Bruce just shrugs.

“I know your style, usually. I can keep up with you almost always. Just give me a few minutes. I'll have analysed your fighting style and beaten you, just see.” Damian says.

“You won't have a few minutes out in the field. It's a hard place, with no rules.” Bruce says, with another right hook to his shoulder that Damian dodges this time. 

Damian jabs at Bruce's midsection, and Bruce takes the hit like he didn't even notice. He sidesteps Bruce's left hook, and delivers a front kick to his torso that Bruce manages to deflect, taking the brunt of it on his side. 

Bruce kicks at his knees again, and Damian nearly buckles. 

“Watch your–” 

“–feet,” Damian says. “I know.”

He ducks under another one of Bruce's kicks, and punches Bruce's side before he can pivot around and block him. Bruce grunts. 

“You says that – every time,” Damian pants, smirking. 

Bruce bodily picks him up and throws him down on mat. Hard.

“Maybe you should watch your feet every time, then.” Bruce says, looking almost amused.

Damian groans, rubbing his shoulder, “This is Silat. Not WWE, you know. And besides, that wasn't very fair. You're bigger than me.” He says. 

Bruce crouches down to Damian's level, his elbows resting on his knees. “The field's not fair. You won't find a whole lot of other thirteen year olds fighting in the streets. Statistically speaking, most of the people up against you will be bigger than you.” 

He stands up again. “Get up.” He says, and there's no hand reaching out to help him up this time.

Damian gets up.

*

 

He's different. He's silent most of the time, and it occurs to Damian that he might not be very good at talking. That he might have spent a long time alone, in silence.

He spends long hours in his study, and when Damian goes up there to see what he's doing, he finds that Bruce is just staring at that portrait of his parents that hangs up there, an abstracted look on his face.

He trains. Constantly.

Push-ups. Chin-ups. Sit-ups. Weights. Push-ups again.

“I have to get better,” Bruce tells him, his breaths coming in hard, short gusts as he lifts a barbell, lying horizontally on the bench press. “Stronger. It's not enough.  _ I'm _ not enough. Not alone.” He looks at Damian, his eyes intense. “In the future,” he says hesitantly, “if what you're saying is true, there are . . . people who help me.”

“Yes.” Damian says. He's standing next to Bruce’s head. He's supposed to be spotting for him.

Bruce lifts the barbell up again, gritting his teeth. “Does it – get easier.”

Damian thinks about it. “Not really.” He says.

Bruce puts the barbell back on its rest stands, sighing. “That's what I thought,” he says.

Everything he does, he does for Batman. The crusade. Damian watches as Bruce eats five hundred calories of boiled chicken and a protein powder shake for lunch, while working on a schematic for a new batmobile design. He wonders if Bruce went to sleep at all last night, or if he just stayed down at the cave all night, analyzing his grass samples in the lab, doing his drill, (push-ups, chin-ups, sit-ups, weights. Push-ups again.) and going to patrol. 

They go down to spar after breakfast, early in the morning, and they don't come back up until lunchtime, and Bruce goes back down right afterwards, saying he needs to replace parts in the batmobile engine. He doesn't come back up until six in the evening.

It occurs to Damian that Bruce might be a little bit sick.

He's angry all the time. Not throwing things and shouting angry, but a quieter, more constant anger, a lower one, thrumming at the back of his voice. He glares at the newspapers in the morning, when they display information about the latest string of bank robberies, and he sighs when he goes through the paperwork that Lucius emails him after breakfast.

“Everyone is so goddamned corrupt.” He mutters in the batcave, sitting near the console, clicking his ballpoint pen absent-mindedly, and looking at the papers. He walks over to the small foundry that the batcave and starts welding more batarangs for no apparent reason.

“You're already at full capacity for those,” Damian says, looking at the stacks of batarangs in the armoury.

Bruce just grunts, and ignores him.

He fights like it, his fists tough on the canvas of the punching bag, his feet landing hard on the track as he runs one mile, and then another, and another, and another. 

As for Pennyworth, well. Pennyworth just leaves him alone. 

“He's just having a day,” he tells Damian in the manor kitchens, as he kneads dough for a pastry while Damian sits on the counter beside him, his legs dangling from the high granite counters.

“He's having a day,” Damian repeats.

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?” He says.

“He's a little upset.” Pennyworth says, after a while. “After his parents passed, he started taking things rather . . . hard. He was always a quiet, sensitive boy.”

“He's a man now.” Damian points out. Besides, it doesn't seem healthy to spend so long downstairs training. Patrol is Damian's whole life, but even he can see that.

Pennyworth starts pulling apart the dough and sectioning it into little balls. “He'll be fine tomorrow.” he says, and that's the end of that.

But Damian can't stop thinking about it, sitting in his new room in the manor, and running a hand over his Robin suit. It's late evening, and the waning light streaming in from the window makes the suit look like it's almost glowing.

When Grayson talked about his Robin days, he always mentioned Father as being carefree and fun and – and happy. 

Something Bruce is clearly not, currently. 

So what happened? Perhaps it was Grayson. Perhaps he brought out the light in Father. Filled the empty spaces and hollow darknesses with idle chatter and warm hugs. Sleepless nights with cocoa and bedtime stories.

At any rate, it isn't something Damian is very capable of doing. Warm hugs are gross, anyway. 

A knock on the door. Damian looks up, shoving the suit back under the pillow. He doesn't exactly know  _ why _ he does it, it's not like they haven't seen him in the suit. They saw him yesterday, when he fell out of the air and into Pennyworth's flowers. But– but it feels like a secret that he's giving away. The suit is the only thing attaching him to his own time. To his father. To his brothers. He doesn't want anyone else to look at it. 

“Come in,” he says, getting off of the bed.

The door opens. It's Pennyworth.

“Master Wayne requests for your presence in the living room. He has . . . company.” Pennyworth says. His stiff and formal tone along with the rigid line of his shoulders suggest that he is not very pleased.

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Company?” He says.

Pennyworth inclines his head. “A miss Sally Desmarais is here to see you.” He says.

Damian frowns. “Who?”

“Miss Desmarais is here from the social services,” Pennyworth says. “She seems to be under the impression that you have misplaced your family. She's here to help.” He says this is a bland, even tone, but Damian's known Pennyworth for years now, and he can tell that he doesn't approve.

Damian stares at him. “Bruce called _social services_?”

“It would seem so, yes.”

“But I told him not to! And he said he could help me, with the Morales’. He said he could–” he cuts himself off, frowning. Pauses.

“This better not be because he's having a goddamned _day_ ,” he hisses.

Pennyworth simply shrugs. “I can tell Master Wayne that you are currently indisposed, if you'd like. I'm sure miss Desmarais would understand.”

“No.” Damian says shortly. “If he wants to get rid of me he should just do it quick. I'll go.” He says, and strides past Pennyworth into the hallway. 

By the time he's reached the living room downstairs, he's seething. How dare Bruce call some stranger to take him away without his permission? And after he promised to help him, too. He's not only broken his word, he's also flat out lied to Damian's face. 

He reaches the living room, and sees Bruce sitting on one of the sofas, with a slight, blonde woman opposite him. The woman looks up at him, pushing her tortoiseshell glass up her nose. Her face breaks into a smile. She extends a hand towards Damian, offering him a handshake.

“Hello,” she says, kindly. “I'm Sally. It's nice to meet you, Damian.”

Damian shakes her hand. Hard.

“Oh my,” she says, laughing a little. “That's a firm handshake.”

“Yes.” Damian says. He can feel Bruce looking at him. “What is this for?” He says.

“Oh,” Sally says. “Ah, I- uh, thought you'd been informed by Mr. Wayne? I just need to talk to you a little, and then we can go right ahead.”

Damian blinks. “Go right ahead with what?”

Sally smiles. It's actually quite a lovely smile. It’s terribly annoying. “Well, take you into a foster home. But I think we should all sit down and have a little chat first.”

“A foster home?” Bruce says. “That wasn't what we discussed.”

Damian turns around and glares at him. “Yes, Bruce. And what exactly did you discuss?”

Bruce has the decency to at least avoid his eyes. He looks at Sally instead. “I thought he'd be sent to the Martha and Thomas Wayne orphans rehabilitation center.”

Sally smiles even more graciously than previously. Damian has the distinct urge to slap her. 

“Yes, that _was_ the original plan,” she says “but we seem to be a little bit over capacity at the moment. Unfortunately there's no shortage of orphaned or at-risk children in Gotham, at the moment.” She turns to Damian. “Please,” she smiles. “Have a seat.”

Damian takes a seat on the farthest possible sofa from Bruce's.

“So,” Sally says, taking a clipboard out from her large bag. “Can I have your last name, please?”

Damian stills. “My – what?”

Sally looks up. “Your last name, sweetie. It's standard procedure. I need it to fill up the form.”

“My last name,” Damian says, trying to think. “It's. It's- uh.” 

“Yes?”

“Uh, Grayson.” He says, saying the first thing that he can think of. He can still feel Bruce's eyes on him, not missing a thing.

“Alrighty.” Sally smiles, jotting something down on her clipboard. “And your date of birth?”

“I– I'm not sure.” Damian says, truthfully, this time.

Sally looks up again. “I'm sorry?”

“I'm not sure.” Damian says. “My mother never told me the date on which I was born. Said it didn't matter.” And then he prepares himself for the inevitable wave of pity and heart-clutching sickening sympathy and looks that he usually gets. “You _poor_ baby,” she might say, or worse, “What a _monster_.”

Instead, Sally seems surprisingly steadfast. There's only a minute hesitation, and then she continues, “Uh, well. Would you at least happen to know the year you were born?” 

“Yes, 2004.” Damian says, at the same time that Bruce says, “he told me that he's thirteen.”

Sally looks between the both of them, confused. 

Damian closes his eyes. He can feel Bruce's warning gaze on him. He's an idiot. “He's right,” he says weakly. “I don't know why I said 2004. Must have gotten confused. I'm thirteen.”

“Right. So, your year of birth would be 1991?”

Damian is silent. Lying is not a regular pastime for him. 

“Yes,” Bruce cuts in. “That would be right.”

“Great!” Sally chirps, overly enthusiastic again, as the confusion seems to have passed. “And what about your parents, honey? When did you see them last?”

Damian decides to stick the the closest possible version of the truth. “I live with my father. I haven't seen my mother in a while.” He says.

“Uh huh,” Sally says, jotting all of this down on that stupid clipboard of hers, “Go on.”

“My father isn't here.” He says.

“What do you mean?” Sally asks.

Damian tries to think of something creative to say. Nothing comes to mind. If Grayson were here he'd have invented a ten minute long sob story about being on the run from the mafia, while stealing money from drugs stores to pay for his ailing father's medicines, all on the spot. He sighs. He's not Grayson.

“Damian’s father is dead.” Bruce says.

Damian shoots him a sideways look. Bruce shrugs. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sally says predictably. “I'm so sorry.”

Damian shrugs. “It's okay.” He says uncomfortably. He hopes she doesn't try to hug him. 

“What about your mother?” Sally asks. “Where is she?”

“She lives halfway across the world.” Damian says.

“And I'm assuming this is the one that didn't tell you your birth date?” Sally says.

_ No, it's the other one _ , Damian thinks scathingly. Biting back the comment, he says, “Yes.”

“Hmph.” Sally says, giving an unhappy sort of sigh. “Well then. I suppose until we've done a little more research, contacting your mother is not a viable option.” 

“I suppose not.” Damian says.

Sally goes back to scrawling something on her clipboard. “In that case, I'm going to reach out to a few programs in the inner city–” 

“The inner city programs?” Bruce cuts in again. “But those are terrible.”

Sally's smile becomes rather fixed looking. “Mr. Wayne, the board is doing the best it can with the resources it is being provided by the city.” 

“The best it can do is not good enough.” Bruce says, testily. “Look at the Martha and Thomas Wayne rehabilitation facility, for instance. It's doing more than most institutes are for at-risk children, and all free of cost.”

Sally sniffs. “Mr. Wayne, I'll have you know that most programs don't run on seemingly _endless_ budgets like the Martha and Thomas Wayne Foundation, and _most_ of us have–”

“Look.” Damian interrupts. “We can talk about this all day. But I'd rather not. What are my other options?”

Sally sniffs again, but says, “I know a lovely home in the East End, lovely couple, great set of kids, but they have a fresh vacancy.”

“The East end. Fresh vacancy.” Bruce says. “Let me guess. The kid got sent to juvie.”

Sally narrows her eyes. “The East End is an up and coming–”

“No it's not.”

“Beautiful–”

“Hardly.”

“And _extremely_ interesting locale, where all sorts of diverse personalities interact and live together in harmony and balance.”

“Right. Diverse personalities. You mean thugs and junkies.”

“I'll take it.” Damian says, interrupting both of them. 

“What?” Bruce says.

“The East End family. I'd like to meet them.” Damian says. The East end is where Pedro Morales’ primary drug labs are based anyway, and Bruce has made it clear that he doesn't want to help. He'll just have to do it himself. Perhaps this is his best bet.

Sally beams. “Perfect. I'll just contact my colleague at the main office, and we'll work the preliminary details out.”

“Until then, where am I to be housed?” Damian asks.

“Oh, you'll be in the St. Andrew's girls and boys’ orphanage, for a temporary period of, let's say, two weeks? It takes a while to figure these things out. Beurocracy, you know.”

Damian winces. Two weeks. That's more than he expected.

“St. Andrew's. You're kidding.” Bruce says.

Sally's smile becomes rather strained. “Did you have a question, Mr. Wayne?”

“That place is a dump.” Bruce says. “Surely you can't expect him to stay there for two weeks.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Sally says, very sweetly. “You seem to have many problems with the way our foster care system works. You're very well welcome to do something about it. I for one, do hope you remember these complaints when it comes to donating to various charities and institutions.”

Bruce falls into a sullen silence. 

Sally smiles again. “Great.” She says, getting on her cellphone. She looks at Damian. “Honey, if you'll just tell me your size, I can find you some decent clothes. I doubt you can wear these pajamas forever,” she says, giving him a warm look.

Damian looks down at his clothes. He's still wearing the pajamas that Pennyworth gave to him yesterday night. They're obviously very old; they look like they belonged to Bruce when he was a child. It's a t-shirt with a picture of a spaceship on it. One of those wretched shows that Drake always watches. Star Trek or Wars or one of them.

There's nothing else that fits him here.

“I'm a medium.” He says. “Boy's medium.”

Bruce is still looking back and forth between Sally and Damian. He opens his mouth to say something, and closes it again.

“This is all moving a little fast, isn't it?” he blurts out. 

Sally sighs. “Jesus _Christ_.” she says, slightly unprofessionally.

“I mean, it's all very final, isn't it?” Bruce says. “I thought there would be more of a buffer space, I guess. Can't he stay here for a few days?”

“No.” Sally says. 

“So you're just going to _take_ him? Like, right now?”

Damian turns to glare at him again. “That's what _tends_ to happen,” he says, “when you call _social services._ ” 

Sally seems to have transcended to the level of just flat-out ignoring Bruce now, and looks warmly at Damian instead. 

“You're going to love the Cárdenas,” she says. “They're a good family. A bit big, eight children. But they're great. Great people. You'll see.”

“ _Eight_ other children.” Bruce repeats hollowly.

“I'm used to living in a big family.” Damian tells Sally.

“Are you now?” Sally says, with some interest. “Were you with another foster home before this? Or did–”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Bruce says abruptly.

“What?” Sally says.

“I’ve changed my mind. You don't need to take him to a home. I'll keep him.”

Damian stares.

“Keep him,” Sally splutters, pushing her glasses up her nose. “You can't – He's not a toy, for god's sake. You just  _ keep _ him, Mr. Wayne.”

“Why not?” Bruce says sounding surprised. 

Damian sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“He's not yours to keep, Mr. Wayne. Of course, if he was biologically related to you, it would be a different situation, but you can't just–”

“I'll adopt him.” Bruce says.

Sally looks at him, open-mouthed. 

Damian covers his face. Great. This is going just great.

“You can't _adopt_ me,” he mumbles from behind his hands.

“Why not?” Bruce says.

_Because I'm already your son, you dolt,_ He wants to scream. 

“You just– you just _can't,_ okay?”

Sally is frantically going through her sheaf of notes on her clipboard. “This is a far shot, Mr. Wayne. In a lengthy screening process, the board factors in your age, which is on the lower side, and your financial status,” she makes a small note on her clipboard, “no problem _there_ – and most importantly, your emotional maturity and communication capabilities.” She says, giving him a look. “So you can see why we may have a problem.”

Damian would laugh, if he wasn't so distressed.

“Oh,” Bruce says. A pause. “I'm sure the board can make an exception for me.” He says.

Sally bristles. “The board is impartial. It makes exceptions for no one.”

Bruce gives her a small smile. “This is Gotham. Three of my shareholders sit on the board. Lindsey Powell, the acting chair, is my third cousin, twice removed. My interim CEO’s wife is the treasurer. My mother was one of the founding members. Miss Desmarais, I would think it's safe to say that I  _ am _ the board.”

Sally slumps a little. “But you can't–” she opens and closes her mouth. Pushes her glasses up her nose again. 

“Sally,” Bruce says, his voice softer. “How about I make a sizeable donation to the Gotham Children’s trust. They need the help, don't they?”

“I – I suppose so, yes.” Sally says, hesitantly. “But–”

Bruce cuts her off with a blinding smile. “And St. Andrew's could use a new gymnasium, couldn't they?”

Sally blinks. “That would be lovely. I, uh. The children would like that very much.”

“Of course they would.” Bruce says smoothly. “I'll have Alfred fetch my checkbook. I was thinking around five?”

“Five thousand?” Sally says, her eyebrows shooting up.

Bruce smiles warmly at her. “Million.” He says.

Sally blinks. When she finally speaks, her voice is very small. “Five _million_. . . dollars?”

Bruce's voice is infinitely patient. “Yes, miss Desmarais. Would that be enough for a gymnasium at St. Andrew's?”

“Mr. Wayne,” Sally says, in a hushed voice, “that would be enough to for a new gymnasium for every orphanage in Gotham.”

Bruce smiles. “Sounds great. Now, about this adoption thing–”

“I'll– I'll see what I can do.” Sally says, still looking wide-eyed. She gets to her feet, grabbing her bag and clipboard. Pushes up her glasses. “The city won't forget this, Mr. Wayne. Really, I couldn't–”

“Great.” Bruce says again, his smile positively dazzling. “I'll see you out.” He says, herding her gently out of the living room and into the foyer. 

Damian stays where he is. He hasn't really moved much in all of this, except to take his hands off of his face. He looks down at the braided carpet.

He can hear Sally thanking Bruce fervently, and Bruce making demurring protests. 

“Really,” Bruce says, “it's nothing.”

“Mr. Wayne, we couldn't thank you enough.”

“You really could.” Bruce says, pleasantly. “We’ll be in touch. Bye now.” 

Damian hears the sound of a door shut firmly.

Bruce comes back to the living room, and stands in front of Damian. “Look,” he starts. “I know–”

“No.” Damian says. 

Bruce frowns. “What?”

Damian shakes his head. He’s still looking down. “No. You _don't_ know. You had no right to do that. You can't decide to get rid of me and then change your mind again that like that. You can't do things just because you _feel_ like doing them.”

He looks up then, at Bruce. Bruce is just staring at him.

Damian stands up. “Guess what.” He hisses. “I don't care if you're having a day, or a goddamned _week_ or whatever. I don't _care_. You had a responsibility. You made me a promise.” He can feel his lower lip beginning to quiver. He squares his shoulders inspite of it. “My Father taught me _never_ to break my promises. That my word was my bond.” He says. He takes a deep breath. “I'm going back to him. To my family. There's nothing for me here. If you're going to help, fine. If not, stop getting in the way.” He says, and then he walks away, out into the foyer, and out of the door.

He can feel Bruce stare at him as he goes.

*

 

The poolhouse is large and quiet in the dim light of the evening. The water reflects against the blank white walls in pretty, ever-changing, flowing patterns. 

Damian sits at the edge of the pool, his feet dipped in the cool wet. He looks down at the water around his ankles. 

If Titus were here now he'd have jumped in and done a few laps haphazardly, bobbing and splashing around while his tongue hung out of his mouth, spraying everyone with water as he dove in messily.

Damian would have laughed at him.

He crouches closer to the surface of the water, hugging himself. 

Footsteps, echoing on the tiles of the pool house. He doesn't look up.

Bruce sits down next to him, on the edge of the pool. 

“Hi,” he says. 

Damian is silent.

Bruce puts a pile of clothes in his lap. Damian looks down at it. 

“I went out and got you some clothes. The social worker was right. You can't wear those pajamas forever.” He says. “Boy's medium, right?”

Damian holds up one of the t-shirts. It looks like it'll fit. “Right.” He says.

“Okay.” Bruce says, nodding. “Good.” And then he just sits there, next to Damian, studying his hands.

Damian is halfway sure that he came here to apologize, except he's not quite sure how to do it. He's probably just going to sit there until Damian says something.

Damian sighs.

“Beats the weird space pajamas, anyway.” he says.

Bruce looks at the t-shirt Damian has on right now. “It's not weird,” he says, “it's the _Enterprise_.”

“Whatever.” Damian says. “You're a nerd.”

“Yeah.” Bruce says.

A pause.

“You're not – you're not saying that no one knows about _Star Trek_ in the future, are you?”

“I thought you didn't believe that I was from the future.” Damian says.

Bruce frowns, studying the water. “I don't know what to think anymore.” He says. 

Another silence.

“ _Star Trek_ is still a thing.” Damian says, after a bit. “I just don't care about it particularly.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“That's good to know.” 

A pause.

“Not  _ the you don’t care _ part. The  _ it's still around _ part.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Not that you  _ have _ to care about it. It's just a show.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They study the water some more. Damian desperately misses his dog.

“I'm sorry,” Bruce says. He's looking away.

“I know.” Damian says.

“I shouldn't have done that. Gone behind your back like that.” He says.

Damian looks at him. It's twilight now, and the pool lights have switched on automatically. The blue glow from underneath the water illuminate the side of Bruce's face in a way that makes him seem remote. There's something murky in his eyes. Something dark.

“I don't really think about things before I do them.” Bruce says.

“That's not true. You think about everything all the time. Every possibility. Every scenario. And you have a contingency for all of them.”

Bruce is silent. “Maybe the problem is that I think too much.” He says.

One pool light flickers, and then switches back on again. A breeze causes the trees to sway outside. It's dark out now.

Damian looks down at his lap. “Thanks for the clothes.” He says, at last.

“The least I could do.” Bruce says.

He rises. So does Damian. 

“Go get dinner.” Bruce says. “Get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow, we go to the East End.”

“Alright.” Damian says. “Where are you going?” He says, when Bruce starts walking in the opposite direction. 

“To the cave. I'm going get an hour on the track in before I sleep.” 

Damian frowns, but he says, “Okay.”

Bruce starts to walk off towards the treeline outside the pool house, where the alternate entrance of the cave system is housed. 

“Wait,” Damian says suddenly.

Bruce stops. Turns, and looks at him.

Damian pauses. “Come inside.” He says, trying to sound nicer. Softer. “Come have dinner instead.”

Bruce stares at him. “I–”

“Please,” Damian says. “Let's go have dinner.”

Still Bruce stands where he is, looking uncertain.

“You can run tomorrow morning.” Damian insists. 

“I– alright.” Bruce says.

“Really?” Damian says, feeling surprised.

Bruce shrugs a little, walking back toward him. “I said so, didn't I?”

“Yes.” Damian says.

“So let's go.” Bruce says, walking past him, back towards the manor.

Damian shrugs. The trees sway in the faint breeze outside the manor. The stars shine unlike anything Damian has seen in the last thirteen years. It's a nice night.

They go.


	3. 07/02/2004

**07/02/2004.**

  


In the morning, it rains.

It rains so hard that the fat, heavy drops splatter violently on Damian's windows, waking him up. It rains so hard that at first, when Damian looks out of the windows, he can't even see Pennyworth’s damn petunias.

It rains so hard that when Damian continues to look out the window, to the grounds, he sees only a slightly bedraggled and very wet looking bird hopping from tree to tree in desperate search for shelter, and a slightly less bedraggled but altogether more wet looking Bruce practicing Tai chi in the central courtyard.

Damian stares at him in disbelief. 

Bruce is doing a right heel kick and then a parry and punch in rapid succession. He looks like he very possibly may drown.

“He's completely insane.” Damian whispers, and then feels very stupid about talking to himself in an empty room and goes down to the kitchens and says it to Pennyworth instead.

Pennyworth pours him a glass of milk. “Good morning to you too. I am very well this morning. Thank you for asking.”

Damian stares out of the window of the kitchen, where he can partially see Bruce practicing his closing forms. He shakes his head. 

“Does he think he's building character, or something? Because let me tell you, the only thing that's building rapidly is a mid-sized colony of pneumonial bacteria in his lungs that will kill him before he can say 'Justice’.”

“Master Wayne insists that consistency is the key to a disciplined and and healthy lifestyle. Come rain or shine, daily exercise is a must.”

“Yes, because exercising in the pouring rain seems perfectly healthy. Besides, if he wanted to be consistent, he could just practice _inside_. You know, like a _sane_ person.”

“Master Wayne informs me that Tai Chi is most effective when done in the midst of nature's bountiful gifts.” Pennyworth says. 

Damian shakes his head again, watching Bruce walk back towards the manor, running a hand through his drenched hair and trying to dry it in vain.

“He's completely lost it.” Damian says again.

“Quite.” Pennyworth says, and then, “toast?”

Damian sighs. “Yes, I suppose so.” He says, sitting. “We have a long day ahead of us today.”

“I've heard.” Pennyworth says. He hands him a mug of chocolate milk. “the East end is not somewhere children would be recommended to set foot in, usually.” 

“I'm not an ordinary child.” Damian says, drinking his milk. He looks up, and sees Pennyworth smiling. 

“What.” 

“You have a moustache, oh most un-ordinary child.” Pennyworth says, still smiling.

Damian quickly wipes away the milk from his upper lip, scowling. “Whatever.” He mumbles.

Pennyworth snorts.

Damian hears the sound of the door open, and then close again as Bruce enters. Footsteps across the foyer.

“I hope,” Pennyworth calls out, his tone sharp, “that you have removed your shoes at the door, instead of tracking mud all over this hundred and fifty year old mansion. It would be a shame if you had to spend all morning cleaning the floors instead of eating breakfast now, wouldn't it?” 

The footsteps stop. A pause, and then there is a sound of a mumbled apology. Damian hears the footsteps start to recede, going back to the door.

“That boy,” Pennyworth mutters, handing Damian a plate of buttered toast. “He never learns.” 

Damian grins.

“Close your mouth, master Damian.” Pennyworth says.

Damian closes his mouth, and grins.

“Anyway,” Damian says, when Bruce walks in, sans shoes this time, but still very much drenched, “now that you're done with being one with nature, can we work on our plan to take down Pedro Morales?”

Bruce sits down on the chair across Damian's from the table, ignoring Pennyworth's look of disapproval, and successful creating a small puddle at the table. 

He picks up a piece of toast. “I thought you had it all handled.” He says, crunching down on it. “You seemed awfully confident when you mentioned that you could find some incriminating evidence on him.”

“Because I found some on his son, just last week.” Damian points out. He pauses. “Last week, thirteen years later.” 

“Hnn.” Bruce says. If it were possible for a  _ hnn _ to sound like anything, this one would most definitely sound sardonic.

Damian scowls. “I did, alright? Look, I studied this gang and their movements for almost four months before we finally moved in on them. I know the location of every drug lab, every delivery route, every shell store they own.” 

“Maybe you do, thirteen years later. Not now. Things would be different.”

Damian considers this, drinking some more of his chocolate milk. “Not their base of operations. That would be the same. They started out in the East end, and they gradually expanded to the Narrows, and then a few places near the East docks. Their main lab, their biggest one, that was also their first. We could go there. Take some pictures. Find some names and numbers, and you could drop it off anonymously at the commissioner's office.”

Bruce nods thoughtfully. “Commissioner Loeb works for Falcone. Carmine doesn't like the new East end movement. They haven't infringed on his territory yet, but judging by the way in which they’re making profits in the Narrows, Morales might want to expand to some of the central parts of the city. Loeb will jump on anything that might get Morales arrested.”

“. . . Right.” Damian says. Commissioner Loeb? Well. It's early days yet. “What about Gordon?”

Bruce frowns around his toast. “ James Gordon? He's a captain at the force. What about him?”

“He's a good cop.” Damian says. “He might be able to help.” 

Bruce snorts. “There  _ are _ no good cops under Loeb. He either demotes them or gets them transferred. But Loeb could be of help, when it comes to Morales.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Damian says, and Bruce nods. 

“So it’s settled. We can do it, then.” Damian says. “We can get him.”

Bruce studies his half eaten piece of toast.

“What is it?” Damian says.

Bruce looks contemplative. “Let's say they're just starting out now. And we do something big, like arrest Pedro Morales. This effectively stops an entire budding crime family in their tracks. Gotham becomes a smidgen less crime ridden then it was, yesterday. But it'll have ripple effects too, won't it? Maybe you get Pedro Morales arrested, and then there's no one left to keep Falcone in check, certainly not the GCPD, and I'm not an army. The whole city becomes Falcone’s oyster. He becomes the most powerful man in Gotham. I fail, again and again in bringing him to justice. I get killed trying. There is no Batman. The city falls. You never work with me.” He sets the piece of toast down. “There's a paradox for you.”

Damian frowns. “So you're saying that I shouldn't do anything, because everything I do, even if it's something to preserve the original timeline, will be something that's not been done before in  _ my  _ personal past and is therefore going to have an effect on the future. And so I should just stay here, forever.” 

A deep and sudden feeling of hysteria wells up inside of him, and he realises he might never be able to go home again. He stifles a sob that comes out of nowhere.

The room grows very quiet.

“I'm not saying that,” Bruce says after a while, surprisingly gently. “But maybe we should just think a little more about our actions before we execute them.” 

Damian frowns at his empty mug of chocolate milk. “Alright.” He says finally, not quite able to argue with Bruce's logic.

“Alright.” Bruce says. He gets up, off of his chair, and the puddle on the floor below him only grows larger. Pennyworth sighs audibly. 

“Master Wayne, if you would be so kind as to stop dripping all over the hardwood floors, perhaps one would be able to focus their attentions more closely on cause and effect paradoxes.”

Bruce does a half-grin that Damian's only seen him do in his childhood photographs that Pennyworth keeps on the top shelf of a closet in the attic. “Sorry, Al.”

“He apologizes, but he never cleans up.” Pennyworth mutters, taking their empty plates to the sink.

Damian looks at Bruce. “So it would be safe to say that you are no longer having a, uh, _day_?”

Bruce's smile flickers a bit. He shrugs with one shoulder, looking a little uncomfortable. “Yes, well. Days tend to last, typically, for I would say, about the duration of 24 hours.”

“Pennyworth always says it's unbecoming to be a smartass.” Damian says.

Bruce snorts. “Does he now.” He says dryly. “I wouldn't know.”

*****

**  
**

“This is a complete waste of time.” Damian says, looking at the two figures walking their dog in the distance. 

They're sitting on a park bench. It’s mid-afternoon, and the rain has finally abated. Everything around them is still wet though. Still, Damian can smell the clean wet soil, and the grass and the trees. The sun is out in full force again. Damian wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand.

Bruce is in a nondescript hoodie and sunglasses. A Knights cap. He's hunched in a certain way that makes him look shorter and wider than he really is. And he hasn't shaved. The stubble on his face makes him look strangely different from his usual clean shaven self.

Damian is in his normal clothes. No one would know him here, anyway.

They're watching Pedro Morales walk his dog, while holding his little eight year old son’s hand. 

“It's not a waste of time.” Bruce says. “I find that it's often helpful to see how people spend their downtimes. It helps me map their habits, their routines.” A pause. “Lets me know who their loved ones are in case I need the leverage.”

In the distance, the little boy laughs at the small dog's antics. He throws a stick across the grass, and the dog races through the park, yipping and wagging his tail furiously in search for it.

“You should get a dog.” Damian says, after a bit.

Bruce's stare under the dark shades is blank. “What?”

“A dog. You should get one.” Damian says. 

Bruce looks away again, back at Morales. “I don't like dogs.”

Damian raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “You're kidding.” Father _loves_ Titus. He doesn't always show it, but he does. He knows because he sees him sneaking him bits of food during mealtimes, even though he's not supposed to. 

“I’m not.” Bruce says. “I don't hate them or anything. I just don't like them particularly.”

“Well.” Damian says. “Maybe not now. You will when you get one. You'd love him. Maybe a German shepherd. He'd be a nice addition to the family.”

“ _ What _ family?” Bruce says, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh you know. You and Pennyworth.” Damian pauses. “You could name the dog something catchy and fun.”

“Catchy and fun.” Bruce repeats, looking at Damian like he doubts his sanity.

“Yes. Like a card name. Like King or Jack. Or Ace or something. It would be nice.”

“Damian,” Bruce says, “are you telling me I have a German shepherd named Ace in the future?”

“No,” Damian says, shaking his head vigorously. “Nope. You have no dogs. Zero of them. None of them were called Ace.”

“You said  _ were _ .” Bruce says. “Why did you say that?”

“I said exactly nothing.” Damian says, looking pointedly casual.

“Are you telling me that I  _ had _ a German shepherd called Ace who is going to be dead in thirteen years?”

“No, I'm not. I am not saying that thing. I am saying the opposite of that thing, by which I mean it is not true. Ace is a dumb name anyway.”

Bruce chuckles. “You're a bad liar.” He says.

Damian sighs. “I just thought– you'd have got the dog by now. It must have been later. I must have misremembered.”

“I don't know why I’d get a dog.” Bruce says, still looking at the Moraleses. “I don't really like dogs. I told you.”

But Grayson did, Damian realises. Father got the dog for him. To make the place feel a little bit less big and empty, he supposes. A boy and his dog. Something in his chest feels tight, and all of a sudden he feels an odd. . .  _ tenderness _ for Father. For Bruce.

“What?” Bruce says.

Damian shakes his head. “ Nothing.”

Bruce looks at the kid playing with the little dog in the distance. Their father is watching, a fond smile on his face.

“That's Mikey.” Damian says, narrowing his eyes at the little boy with the broad smile on his face. “Michael Morales. Scum of the earth. He executed six of Maroni's men. Left one of their heads on Maroni's daughter's doorstep. Just to make sure that he got the message.”

Bruce looks at Michael Morales, doubtful. He's roughhousing with the little dog, breaking into helpless giggles when the dog licks him in the face. 

“Him? Really?” Bruce says.

“Trust me,” Damian says grimly. “He grows up into something dark.”

The small dog – looks like some kind of weiner mix – runs in circles around Pedro Morales. He laughs.

“He took over from his father when he turned nineteen. I can't deny that he was very talented at what he did. The coke and oxy sales in the Narrows grew almost threefold. He got careless eventually, though. I found some transcripts of him ordering his men to bring in new shipments from the docks. Once we had that, the GCPD got a warrant. Uncovered a plethora of operations being carried out under his name. Drug trafficking, human trafficking, bribery, assault, multiple homicide, arson, you name it. He's in jail for life, now.” He says.

Mikey Morales yells in delight when his father scoops him up and spins around. The little dog goes half-mad with delight.

“That's. . . sad.” Bruce says.

Damian looks over at Bruce sharply. “No, it's not.” He says. “He got what he deserved. Justice prevailed.”

“Yes,” Bruce says. “But it's sad that he was born into that kind of a family. He obviously looked up to his father a great deal.” He says.

“Bullshit. He didn't do it because his father made him. He did it because he wanted to.”

They watch as Pedro Morales puts his son back down on the grass, ruffling his hair. 

“Put yourself in his shoes.” Bruce says. “You father, your hero, raises you to believe that one day you're going to have to take over the family business. That it's the only way you're going to make him proud. What would you do?” 

Damian scowls. “What is it with people telling me to be more empathetic?”

Bruce blinks. “I didn't say that.”

“You meant it.”

Bruce shrugs. “Look, I'm not saying you're a soulless monster without a heart. I'm just saying that you need to look at things from a different angle, once in a while.”

“I was born into a bad family too.” Damian says. “You don't see  _ me _ going around killing men and delivering their heads to my enemies.”

“Your father?” Bruce says.

A pause. “My mother.” Damian says. “She's not what you would call. . . a model of integrity. Lots of people have parents who are terrible people. You don't see  _ them _ becoming terrible people.”

“Hnn.” Bruce says. He pauses for a moment, like he's thinking about it. “I don't think we can hold everyone up to our perfect ideals of morality or goodness. Or we'd all be disappointed, sooner or later.” 

“So you're saying Mikey Morales is not to blame for any of his heinous crimes? That I shouldn't have put him away?” Damian says, raising an eyebrow.

“I'm not saying that.” Bruce says. “I'm saying you shouldn't expect everyone to be as good as you. They won't be. Not in the real world. You learn to just get used to it.”

“Right,” Damian says, unconvinced.

They watch as Mikey and his father and his little dog start walking back to the park gate.

The dog sniffs interestedly at the base of a tree, and then raises one hind leg and relieves itself all over it.

“My father was a surgeon,” Bruce says, all of a sudden. “He loved it. Fixing people. He was very good at it. And he had no shortage of money, so he took a lot of free cases. The papers called him the Miracle Man. My mother, she- she would tease him about it. Call him Mister Miracle instead, because he always manage to escape dinner parties and charity galas, claiming he had a surgery, or a patient. I would laugh. I always laughed at all her jokes.” Bruce says, looking at Damian, his eyes intense. 

Damian tilts his head. Father never told him that. 

“And then one day, a man showed up at the hospital where my father worked. He was bleeding heavily, and it was clear he'd been shot. More than once. He was clutching a newspaper in his hand, and he said, 'Is the Miracle Man here? I ain't got no money to get myself fixed.'” Bruce smiles. “It was clear he was a gangster. Or at least, some low life working for a gangster. But my father agreed to treat him. He operated on him. The man thanked him, and he went away. But before he went, he said, what you did won't be forgotten, Mister Wayne. You'll be repaid a thousand times over.”

Bruce takes his sunglasses off. Underneath, his eyes are a clear, pale shade of blue. Eyes you can see too much in.

“So one night, a few months later, my parents and I, we're walking back home from a movie theater. I didn't like the movie so much, and I wanted to go home. I was only eight, and I was feeling cranky. Everything happened so damned fast.” Bruce says. He sounds oddly calm.

“And then your parents got shot.” Damian says quietly. 

“And my parents got shot.” Bruce says. “My father saved thousands of lives, he bandaged stab wounds and pulled out shivs, he stapled together torn skin, and he fished out bullet after bullet from the flesh of the worst kind of criminals Gotham had  to offer, all for no cost. All for free. And what did he get?”

Bruce studies his hands idly. “Sometimes I go up to my father's study, and I look at the portrait of my parents on the wall, and I think about that man who walked in with the bullet wounds and the newspaper. What had he said? 'What you did won't be forgotten, Mr. Wayne. You'll be repaid a thousand times over _.' _ ” Bruce smiles a smile so sad that Damian has to look away. “And all he got was a bullet in the head.”

Damian is quiet.

“Life isn't fair.” Bruce says, quietly. “And people aren't good. Most of them are terrible and there is nothing you can do about it except try to keep the few good ones safe from the rest.”

“You really believe that,” Damian says. “You really believe that most people are terrible?” 

Bruce looks at him. 

And Damian knows the answer.

*

  


In the evening, they suit up for Patrol. 

“Are you sure wearing that is the best idea?” Bruce says, looking at Damian's suit dubiously. “It seems very. . . bright.”

Damian frowns, looking down at the suit. “Mine is mostly black and green. Besides, Grayson's was much worse.”

“Who?” Bruce says.

“Nothing. No one.” Damian says, quickly. 

“Grayson, as in your last name?” 

“Uh, yes. I was talking about myself in the third person. I tend to do that. Gives me a sense of grandeur.” Damian says, feeling flustered.

Bruce stares at him. “Gives you a sense of grandeur.” He says.

Damian does his best to look casual. “Right. Makes me feel better about myself. I'm fragile like that.”

Bruce stares at him for another moment, and then just sighs, shaking his head. “I don't know if anyone's told you this before, but you're a terrible liar.”

“ _ You _ have.” Damian points out. “On multiple occasions. In fact, I'm pretty sure that you told me twice today.”

“That was because you were pretending broccoli didn't exist in the future so that you could be excused from eating it at lunchtime.” Bruce says, putting his cowl on.

Damian’s shoulders slump. “I thought it was worth a shot.” He says. It’s a shame Pennyworth didn't buy it.

“Trust me. As long as Alfred is alive and breathing, broccoli will never cease to exist.” Bruce says, putting his gauntlets on. “Even if he has to pull it out of the ground with the force of his sheer willpower.”

Damian laughs, and the corner of Bruce's mouth twitches up. 

“Let's go,” he says, starting to walk towards the batmobile. “Let's see if you can manage to last the night.”

Damian pauses.

Bruce turns, looking at him. “Well? Aren't you coming?”

Damian hesitates. “Usually, after you say Let's go, you–” he pauses again. 

“What?” Bruce says.

“You say, Let's go,  _ Robin _ .” Damian says, finally. What the hell. He's already probably irrevocably damaged the timeline anyway. “That's what you call me, in the field. You're Batman, and I'm Robin.”

“Robin.” Bruce says slowly, like he's trying out the word. “Like a bird?”

“Yeah,” Damian says, thinking of Grayson jumping off of fifty feet high stands and doing perfect somersaults on a trapeze. “Like a bird.”

“I like it,” Bruce says, nodding. 

Damian shifts uncomfortably, trying not to feel guilty about disclosing this piece of information. He shouldn't even be here, be talking to his  _ father _ from the  _ past _ , and now what if he screws  _ everything _ up and–

A hand touches his shoulder, gently.

Damian looks up.

“You okay?” Bruce asks.

“I– yes. Yeah. I'm okay.” Damian says.

“Alright.” Bruce says. “Let's go, Robin.”

*

  


“To your right!” Damian yells, and Bruce ducks swiftly, as he narrowly avoids getting shot at. He turns around and throws a batarang at the man behind the gun, and Damian hears a clatter and a thud, and the man goes down.

Bruce comes over to where Damian is standing, at the rooftop adjacent to the Alto plaza, where they stopped the robbery.

“You know,” Damian says, panting, “you're not as bad at this as I thought you'd be.”

“Hnn.” Bruce says, looking at the sky. He's waiting for the batsignal to pop up again, Damian realises. “You should have seen me six months ago. I essentially went out every night, got beat up, and went back home.”

Damian grins. “No.” He says. He can't imagine Bruce ever being bad at patrol.

“Yes.” Bruce says. “Let’s just say, there was a very steep learning curve.”

“Huh,” Damian says. He sits down on the edge of the rooftop, watching as the police cars below arrive at the scene to pick up the tied-up criminals. It must be about three in the morning. It's been a long patrol, almost five hours. He's tired, he realises. Really tired. 

He frowns. He's gotten soft. Gotten used to the patrol zones system that they have, where they all do alternate shifts, and no one has to patrol for more than two hours. Three, at the most. Some nights, one of the others take over his shift, and he doesn't have to patrol at all.

It never occurred to him that back when Father was all alone, or only had one robin, he'd have to patrol the whole night long, every night. Night after night of constant, exhausting vigilance. 

After a while, Bruce sits down next to him.

They look at the night shift cops booking the robbers on the street below.

“Do you ever get tired?” Damian asks.

Bruce smiles. “All the time.” He says.

A brief silence.

“You're doing good work.” Damian says quietly. “I know there isn't anyone to tell you that, yet. But you are.”

Bruce tilts his head. “I hurt people. That's my job. It doesn't feel like good work.”

“You donated five million dollars to a childcare organisation.” Damian points out. “That's good work.”

Bruce smiles again, slightly wry. “Yeah, my lawyer called me up about that today, suitably frazzled. That might have been a bit of a – rash decision on my part.”

Damian snorts. “Really.” He says.

Bruce nudges his shoulder gently. “Shut up,” he says, his face remote as ever. But Damian can hear the smile in his voice.

On the street below, the police cars drive away into the night. The road is empty and silent. It reminds Damian of the night he was taken. It's been three whole days since then.

“Bruce,” Damian says, swallowing, “Look, what if– what if I get stuck here. What if I can't get home?"

Bruce is silent. In the distance, he hears yet another police siren. 

“You won't,” he says. He looks at Damian. “I promise I'll get you back home. We'll figure something out together, okay?”

Damian looks up again. The batsignal is flickering through the clouds. He points up at it. Bruce gets up, off of the rooftop ledge, ready to grapple to the other end.

Another crime. Another hour of patrol. Over and over again. That's Bruce's life, Damian realises. The same thing, every day. Hopelessness and guilt and monotony.

Damian rises slowly, taking the hand that Bruce offers to help him up. 

“You really need a dog,” he says, as they prepare to make the jump across the ledge.

Bruce laughs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't post on weekends, so the next chapter will probably be up on Monday. Or Tuesday. Hopefully Monday.


	4. 07/03/2004

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has a fair bit of violence in it. If you're squeamish, it's probably not for you.

**07/03/2004**

 

“Mr. Wayne, are you even paying attention?”

Bruce looks up from his post-it note doodles, hastily shoving them under his briefcase. He looks up at a room full of executives seated along a long conference room table. They're all staring at him. He clears his throat.

“Of course I am. You were talking about the previous fiscal quarter’s revenue to EPS ratio. And how we could develop a stronger top-line growth if we pushed pharma sales more aggressively in this quarter.”

The room is silent. Someone coughs awkwardly.

Lucius looks at him, resigned. “We were talking about the annual Wayne industries Fourth of July benefit, Mr. Wayne. That's being held in the Manor  grounds?”

Bruce blinks. “Right. That too.”

Lucius sighs. “Anyway, I was saying that perhaps if we could all discuss the statement you're planning to make, it would be best. Something about the veterans, perhaps. And how donating to Wayne charities and associated organisations goes a long way in helping soldiers get what they deserve after their various trials and traumas overseas. After all, Gotham helps its own.”

Bruce blinks again. Wow. “Perhaps you ought to give the statement, Mr. Fox. You seem to know what you're talking about.”

Lucius smiles tightly. “A word, Mr. Wayne? In private?”

“Sure,” Bruce says, getting up. Some of the executives shift nervously, not understanding what's going on. He shrugs at them, pantomiming his cluelessness at Lucius's requests. A few of them laugh, and he grins at them.

“Mr Wayne,” Lucius says.

“Right.” Bruce says, following him into a room adjacent to the conference room. It's smaller, with a single desk and chair.

Lucius crosses his arms, and after a moment's thought, uncrosses them, and rubs at his temples instead.

“You seem stressed,” Bruce says, smiling at him. “I recommend this massage parlour downtown, the masseuse there _really_ knows her–”

“Mr. Wayne,” Lucius says firmly, “you need to start leading a little bit around here. Be a bit more serious.”

Bruce puts his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the desk. “That's what I hired you for,” he says, his tone light.

“You hired me to oversee the company’s operations, Mr. Wayne.”

“Same difference,” Bruce says, examining his fingernails.

“Mr. Wayne, the executives need to learn to respect you. They can't do that if you never pay attention during the meetings and you skip every asset evaluation review we have.”

“I have _never_ missed an asset evaluation review.” Bruce says, frowning.

“You missed the one last week.” Lucius points out.

“Oh,” Bruce says. “Well. _That_ didn't count.”

“Really,” Lucius says, infinitely patient, “and why would that be?”

“Because it was waterskiing season, Lucius. Of _course_ I had to go down to Cancun. You can't hold an asset evaluation review during waterskiing season.” Bruce says, like it's perfectly obvious. He goes back to studying his fingernails.

“Bruce.” Lucius says.

Bruce looks up. “What?”

“I just–” Lucius sighs. “I worry about you. I worked under your father, and he was a good man. And I see a lot of you in him, I just–”

“I know,” Bruce says, quieter.

“And I want to see you do well, Bruce. I really do. I want to see you fit in here, and bring back the Wayne name to Gotham. I just hope that you want that too. Because, sometimes it doesn't feel like you do. Do you?”

A pause. Bruce straightens, not leaning against the desk anymore. He looks oddly somber now.

“Bruce?” Lucius says. Bruce looks up at him, and then something comes up, over his eyes. A mask, almost.

Bruce grins again, and says, “Don't worry about that speech, Lucius. I'll kill it.”

 

*

 

As he walks back to his office, he sighs, running his hands through his hair. The cool, air conditioned air in the sleek, glass and marble embellished office corridors doesn't make him feel less claustrophobic. His suit feels too stuffy, too scratchy against his skin. He longs to get out of it, and get into his other suit. The one with more Kevlar in it than this one.

The sound of interns talking and laughing by the water cooler drills on his nerves, his ears. They all stop talking as he walks briskly past him, taking him in with a hushed sense of awe, but it doesn't help. The sound of heels clacking against the marble floor, the steady, cold stream of stale air flowing through the hallways, the ringing of telephones on the desks of secretaries, the way his shirt feels on his skin, it's all too much.

He stops walking. Closes his eyes.

“Uh, Mr. Wayne? You okay?” Says one of the interns.

Bruce opens his eyes, and looks over at him. “I'm fine. . .”

“Jamie, sir.” The intern says. He clears his throat. “Uh, James. James Riley. I'm working for Mr. Castaneda in accounting?”

“Mr. Castaneda,” Bruce says, trying to place him.

“He's the uh, branch supervisor? Kind of a short guy, always tells you about where he got his watch from?”

“Oh,” Bruce says, realisation dawning upon him. “Oh, _that_ Mr. Castaneda.”

The intern laughs a little nervously. “Uh yeah.” He blanches. “Please don't tell him I said that, though.”

“Don't worry, John,” Bruce says, even though he's perfectly sure that the kid mentioned that his name was Jamie. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“It's actually Jame–”

“Could you point me to the bathroom, Jacob? I don't come down to this floor a whole lot, unfortunately. Look like something I should change though,” he says, looking around. There's a sad looking birthday banner strung up in the break room, reading ' _happy birthday Sharon!!!’._

“Accounting seems to be where the real party is.”

The intern laughs, walking him to the bathroom. “Yeah, we're not real cool, I guess. But we make sure everyone gets their bonuses on time.”

“I love bonuses.” Bruce says, airily. “Especially so because I get to decide how much I want it to be. This summer,” he says, looking meaningfully at Jamie, “I gifted myself a Bentley with mine.”

Jamie blinks. “I used mine to buy a pop-up toaster for my girlfriend.”

Bruce pats the intern's back heartily. “So you know what I mean, then.”

“Sure,” Jamie says, smiling nervously. They reach the men's washroom.

“Uh, here it is,” Jamie says. “Don't use the first cubicle cause the door doesn't lock properly.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Bruce says, smiling wide at him.

“Uh, sure thing, sir.”

Bruce walks into the bathroom, and into the second cubicle, where he slides down to the floor and puts his head in his hands. He contemplates briefly on taking off his shirt and flushing it down the toilet, but decides that it would be a little hard to explain.

He takes a deep breath. In.

His father wanted this. His father wanted him to work in his company and talk about CDOs and net profits in a fiscal quarter and speeches that he'd give during benefits.

He takes a deep breath. Out.

No, his father didn't. His father wanted him to be happy. _He_  was the one who wanted to work in the company and look at stocks on a big white board and gives presentations to men in black suits and Rolex watches. Before. Before they died. That was all he wanted.

He blinks hard. He's not a different person now. What happened sixteen years ago does not define him. He should still want the same things he wanted back then. He should.

So it's what he's going to do.

He allows himself to sit on the floor for seven more seconds and then he gets up, and washed his face in the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror. Staring back at him is a grown man in a suit, his face pale and drawn.

He stills feels like an eight year old child walking down an alley. When did he grow up?

He dries his face with one of the paper towels at the dispenser and then he walks out of the bathroom. His clothes don't feel so tight on him anymore.

Outside, the intern is still hanging around, for some reason.

“George,” he says, not breaking his stride as he walks with renewed purpose towards his office, “with me. I have a job for you.”

Jamie struggles to keep up with his pace. “Actually sir, it's–” he sighs. “Nevermind.”

 

In his office, Damian lounges causally on one of the low backed sofa seats. He looks up when the door opens.

“Oh, thank god you're finally here.” He says, putting aside a sheaf of papers. “If I have to read one more registration statement from your mergers and acquisitions department just to pass the time, I may actually kill myself.” He declared, and then frowns. “Who's this?” He says, looking at a gangly looking man who walks in behind Bruce.

“This,” Bruce says, “is Jacques.”

“Jamie.” The man says.

“Right.” Bruce says, offhandedly. “Whatever. He's going to write my speech for tomorrow's fourth of July benefit.”

“I am?” Jamie says.

“You are.” Bruce nods.

“But, but I'm in accounting.” Jamie says, gaping at him. “You could ask someone in PR, or– or maybe marketing or something, I don't know. I'm not good at writing speeches, sir.”

“Lucius knows everyone in marketing and PR,” Bruce says, slapping Jamie's back again. Damian rolls his eyes. “You're my only hope, Jake.”

“Look,” Damian says, interrupting, “can I go back to the manor? There's nothing to do here.”

Bruce looks at him. “Alfred said he needed some alone time.”

Damian scoffs. “That's ridiculous.”

“You did significantly damage his topiary with a katana,” Bruce points out, not unkindly.

“Uh, Mr. Wayne?” Jamie says. “This is like, none of my business, but is he your cousin or something? Cause, wow, you guys look _crazy_ similar.”

Damian freezes. “Uh.” He says. Not much more comes out of his mouth, unfortunately.

Bruce blinks. He looks at Damian. “He's my nephew.” He says.

“Right.” Damian says. “I'm from Maine,” he says, at the same time that Bruce says “Tennessee.”

Jamie looks very confused.

“Um, Main street. Opposite Tennessee Williams square. In uh, Metropolis.” Damian says.

Jamie frowns. “My aunt lives in Metropolis. Not sure I've ever heard of a Tennessee Williams square.”

“Well. Too bad. It's there.” Damian says.

“Here,” Bruce says quickly, giving Jamie a notepad and a pen from somewhere on his desk. “Start writing. Lucius said something about veterans?”

 

*

 

“You know,” Damian says, as they eat lunch in the manor, “that's James Riley.”

“He mentioned that being his name.” Bruce says. “So?”

“So he's your CFO, now.” Damian says. He mashes a lone pea on his plate with a fork. “And I _hate_ him.”

“Really,” Bruce says. “Why is that?”

“He wouldn't let me purchase the Waterford horse racing course in the company’s name.” Damian scowls. “Said it was 'unstrategic’ and 'wouldn’t contribute to the company's growth.’”

“How unreasonable of him.” Bruce says, wryly.

Damian scowls harder. “Those horses were suffering, Fa–” he inhales sharply, and stops short.

“What happened?” Bruce says.

“N- nothing.” Damian says, frowning at his peas. He'd almost forgotten, because talking with Bruce had begun to feel so familiar, and they'd slipped into that old back-and-forth rhythm again, the same banter that he had with Father. He's so stupid.

When he looks up, Bruce is staring at him, his eyes sharp and intent.

“You were saying something,” Bruce says, slowly. He looks like he's on the verge of a realisation.

Damian’s heart starts to pound. “What?”

“You– you were saying something.” Bruce says. His brow is furrowed. “You were calling me something.”

“No I wasn't,” Damian starts to say, because if this happens, it would ruin everything, it would so irreparably damage the past that he wouldn't even be the same person anymore, that Father wouldn't even be the same person anymore. He's going to ruin it, he's going to ruin everything thing–

“Dessert!” Alfred says, coming in with a tray topped with crème brulé.

Bruce's focus shifts from Damian to Alfred, and Damian slumps against his chair in relief.

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce says, as Alfred hands him a small plate. He looks back at Damian. Warily. Perhaps a little cautiously.

Damian closes his eyes for a moment. They cannot sustain this for much longer.

 

*

 

That night, during patrol, they go to the East end.

“Just to stakeout their location,” Bruce warns him, his voice at least three registers lower than his normal voice. “We can't risk anything from your future changing, Robin.”

“I know. I won't try anything.” Damian says, as they dive through the air with their grapple guns.

He's lying.

He is going to try something, because enough is enough. He doesn't want to stay here any longer. This– this _version_ of Father isn't bad, quite the opposite in fact, but he simply isn't his _Father_. He misses his brothers. He misses Pennyworth. He misses his dog. He misses Brown and Cain and even Thomas. He misses Jon and Wally and the rest of the titans. And he's had enough. He can't sit around and watch his slightly unstable father practice Tai Chi in the rain everyday.

So he's getting home. Today. Tonight.

He squares his jaw and sticks the landing like a goddamn superhero.

The night is long and hard – the East end is known for being a rough place – and they stop half a dozen robberies and one attempted arson. Find a runner with some oxy on him.

“Please,” the kid babbles, crying and cowering and clutching at his backpack. He can't be older than sixteen. “Please. You can't take it. If I go back with no cash Mr. Morales is gonna skin me alive.”

Batman stares at him, grim. There's a silence; he appears to be thinking.

“Can we trust you?” He asks the kid finally.

The kid nods so hard it's a wonder his head doesn't swing off of his neck.

Batman takes his backpack away, and the kid starts blubbering and crying like a fool again.

“Be quiet.” Batman says, and reaches into his utility belt, and takes out a wad of cash.

Damian raises his eyebrows. “Do you tend to make a habit of keeping an average savings account worth of money in your belt?” He says.

Batman ignores him. “Here,” he says, giving the money to the kid. “Go to Mr. Morales, and give this to him. Do _not_ ,” Batman says, looking very, very serious, “mention this encounter to him at all.”

“No sir I won't.” The kids says, grabbing the money fast. He's almost crying with relief. Damian wishes Morales were here right now. He could think of a thing or two to do with him.

“Not so fast,” Batman says, holding the kid by his shoulder as he tries to make a run for it. “Wait.”

He takes something else out of his belt this time, something small and round. Barely the size of a pin. Damian tries to get a closer look. It's a tracker, he realises.

“Stick this in your pocket. And go straight back to the Morales base.” Batman says. “If at any point, you throw it away, or destroy it, or pass it off to someone else, I'll know.” He says, deathly quiet. “And you will _not_ be looking forward to those consequences.”

The kid nods vigorously again. He sticks the tracker in his pocket, and runs off with the wad of cash.

“He's going to throw the tracker in the first dumpster he finds.” Damian says.

“I don't think so.”

Damian snorts. “Did you see him? It was all he could do to not wet his pants in front of you. When provided with a certain degree of . . .persuasion, he wouldn't be able to keep a secret for all the wads of cash in the world.”

“I don't think he'll be questioned. I don't think anyone will think anything is wrong.” Bruce says.

“Why?”

Bruce looks at him. The blank stare of his white lenses is flat. It looks almost. . . amused, for some reason.

“Most people,” Bruce says, “believe that children are inherently honest.”

 

They continue along that patrol route that they were previously on, occasionally intervening to stop vandals and criminals. They're almost done with the East end route when Bruce stops suddenly, holding up a hand.

“Do you hear that?”

Damian listens.

“No.” He says. He doesn't hear anything.

But Bruce is intent. “Concentrate.” He says.

Damian tries to listen more closely this time. And suddenly there– there in the distance is the sound of tinkling glass. No, not tinkling glass. Breaking glass.

Bruce looks at Damian. “Robbery in progress.” He says.

They grapple down to the street below, from the rooftop they were on. There's a jewellery store across the street from them, with a broken window frame. The lights on the storefronts of every store on the road are switched off, save this one. He can hear soft jazz coming from inside the store.

That means the thief switched it on. Which means she has no intent of hiding.

Damian says _she_ because he knows who she is. He realised who she was the second he landed on the street below. Broken glass, lights on, jazz music. She's not even trying to disguise her identity.

Damian sighs. “This is ridiculous. Let's just go back.”

Bruce frowns. “What? No. Why would we do that? Can't you see the robbery in progress?”

“I see it,” Damian says, rubbing at his temples.

“So let's go,” Bruce says, looking at him like he's grown a third arm.

“Look,” Damian says, “you can't arrest her.”

“Her? How do you know it's a her– besides, what do you mean can't? I can do whatever I want, thank you very much.”

“No, I don't mean that you _shouldn't_ arrest her. I literally mean that you _can’t_. You won't be able to.” Damian says.

“Arrest who?” Bruce says. “You know who's in there?”

Damian sighs. “Yes.” He says, finally.

“Well?”

“Catwoman.” Damian says. In the store in front of them, the jazz record changes to another one. Something with a lot of saxophone. Damian frowns. Now she's just showing off.

“Dammnit.” Bruce says.

“Wait,”Damian says. “You know who she is?”

“Of course I know who she is. She's a serious criminal.” Bruce says. “She's gotten away from me many times. But tonight, I'm going to catch her.”

“Someone's going to get caught, alright.” Damian mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, Bruce. I can't explain this to you right now, but you can't arrest her today, okay?”

Bruce crosses his arms, looking at the broken glass in the storefront. “Why not?”

“Because that would mean that the GCPD would have her identity.” Damian says. “Thirteen years too early.”

Bruce looks incredulous. “You're saying it took me _thirteen years_ to catch her?”

“Well, you sort of just gave up after a year or two.” Damian says.

Bruce frowns. “That doesn't sound like something I would do.”

“Yes, well, you had other priorities,” Damian says.

“Other priorities?”

Damian nods. In the store, something crashes loudly. There's more sounds of breaking glass. A distinct sound of a woman laughing.

Bruce blanches. “You don't mean– her and me– that can't–” Bruce pauses. He looks back at the store. Damian can hear the alto voice of Nina Simone from within. And more saxophone. An insufferable amount of saxophone.

“Unfortunately,” Damian says, “yes.”

“I need to–,” Bruce pauses again. “ _Really_?” He says.

“Yes.” Damian says.

Bruce looks at the store. He looks at Damian. Damian shrugs.

“I don't care.” Bruce declares. “You know what? Fuck the future. There's an active robbery in progress and I'm just standing here and watching. I'm going to catch her.” He says.

Damian shrugs. “Fine. Do what you will.”

“Fine.” Bruce says. And then looks back at him. “Really?”

Damian shrugs again. “You know that I'm called Robin, and what my suit looks like and that you had a dog called Ace, and who your CFO is going to be, and that Pennyworth has no hair, and that you and Catwoman have a lot of–”

“Okay, I get it.” Bruce says, holding up a hand.

“My point is, I've already messed up the future. I don't even care anymore, honestly.” Damian says.

Bruce blinks. Not that Damian can see anything under the lenses. But it looks like he blinks. “Alright.” Bruce says. “Let's go.”

“You know what,” Damian says. “I'd actually much rather stay here.” He clears his throat. “Wouldn't want to get in the way of. . . whatever.”

“Nothing is going to happen.” Bruce says, in determined voice, “except for Catwoman's arrest.”

Damian shakes his head. “Whatever you say. I'll just wait here. At um, a safe distance.”

Bruce gives Damian one last look, and shakes his head. He walks off, towards the store.

Damian waits until Bruce is inside the store. That's when he takes out the tracker remote that he snuck from Bruce's utility belt.

He clutches it tight in his palm, and switches it on. A green dot beeps on screen, showing him the exact location of the Morales base.

“Sorry,” Damian whispers, looking at the store. Then he shakes his head. It's stupid to apologize. He's simply doing what he must in order to get back home.

Still, there's still a feeling of something odd, almost dread-like, curling into the pit of his stomach as he shoots out grapple line to the rooftop next to him. A feeling that something is going to go horribly wrong.

 

*

 

It does all go horribly wrong, of course.

Of _course_.

He finds the Morales base easily enough, just following the little green dot on the tracker screen until he's right upon it. Then he puts the tracker screen away, and looks at the building in front of him.

It's big. It's a squat, sordid looking structure, and has some kind of warehouse attached to the back. Looks like an old, abandoned factory. The lights in the top floor are on. Every other window is dark.

Damian walks slowly towards it. It seems harmless enough. Still, he cautiously takes out a batarang from his belt. One can never be too sure. He walks towards its main entrance, jumping over the low fence and gates. There are a few cars parked by the gate. He takes a moment to memorize their number plates in case he needs the information for later. He goes up to the main door.

The door is locked, predictably. Not a problem. He takes out a pin from his belt with a loop in its end. Sticks it only the lock, and gets to work.

Two and a half minutes later, the door clicks nearly open. Damian frowns. His best time is one fifty two. He is getting soft.

He opens the door slowly, stepping carefully over the threshold. No guards posted outside – not unusual. It's eleven in the night. Not generally what one would call working hours. He looks around a little.

The doorway leads to a narrow hall that opens up into a reception space of sorts. The reception is empty too, although he can clearly see that someone usually sits and works at the desk situated there. Must have gone home.

He goes through some of the papers on the desk. There's some sort of accounts sheet printouts. A list of check-ins and checkouts.

It's a list of the drug runners, Damian realises. When and how many grams of coke they're leaving with, and when and how much money they're coming back with.

He looks over the other accounts. There's a large folder of paperwork in one of the desk drawers. The organisation’s books, Damian realises. All records are meticulously written out and planned. The Morales’ people run a tight ship.

But they've been stupid, leaving evidence out in the open like this. Stupid, and careless. He grins. This is more than enough to get Morales arrested with multiple charges.

He puts the books back away. He'll get back to it later.

He walks upstairs, to the first floor. One of the rooms he saw, the ones with light on, is firmly shut. He stands outside it, trying to listen in.

“. . . he told you to not talk about it?” He can hear a man says.

A brief silence.

“Show it to me.” The man says again.

Damian shifts. Could they be talking about the tracker? He takes the tracker remote back out from his belt. Stares at the screen.

All of a sudden, he hears a mighty crack noise from inside the room. At the same time, the little green dot on his remote pings, and the screen goes blank.

“This is what you're supposed to do.” He hears from inside the room. “Not lead them to our location, you fucking idiot.”

A rush of cold goes through Damian. It _is_ them that they're talking about.

“Sir, I'm sorry sir, I promise I won't–” the voice cuts off abruptly as Damian hears a crack noise again. He winces. That one wasn't the sound of someone crushing a tracker underfoot. He hears a small whimper.

“You understand what I'm going to have to do to you now,” he hears the voice say calmly.

“Please,” says the boy. He's crying. “Please don't.”

“I'm sorry.” The other voice says. “I don't enjoy hurting children. It's my fault, really. I shouldn't have hired someone who was so incapable of doing his job. I have a son of my own, actually. Wouldn't want to see him go out this way.”

“Sir, please. I promise I–”

Damian hears another sound. The click sound of the safety of the gun being switched off.

He closes his eyes. Dammit. He clutches at the batarang. He opens his eyes again.

He slams the door open.  

“You're not going to hurt him.” He says.

Pedro Morales looks at him. There's a gun in his hand.

 

*

 

Bruce steps back out of the jewellery store, adjusting his suit slightly. He thinks jazz music might be growing on him.

The street opposite the store is empty.

He frowns, putting his gauntlets back on.

“Robin?” He calls out.

There is no reply.

 

*

 

“Leave him alone,” Damian says, his voice controlled. Measured.

Pedro Morales tilts his head. “Who are you?” He says.

The batarang in Damian's palm feels cool. Reassuring.

“Let him go.” Damian says.

Morales looks at him, sizing him up. “You're a child,” he says softly. “And I'm the one with the gun. I think I should be the one making the demands, here.”

“I don't need a gun to win in a fight with you.” Damian says. “Let him go.”

“Alright,” Morales says easily, and shoots at Damian. The runner across the room whimpers again, clutching at his bloodied face.

Damian tucks and rolls towards his right, narrowly avoiding the bullet. He pulls himself into a defensive crouch.

“I told you.” He says. “I don't need a gun. And guns can't hurt me.”

“Perhaps not,” Morales says. He points the gun at the runner, not taking his eyes off of Damian. “But they can hurt him.”

Damian freezes.

“Put that weapon down.” Morales says calmly. He doesn't point his gun away from the runner. The boy has started to cry again.

Damian hesitates, and then puts the batarang down.

“Take your belt off.” Morales says.

Damian takes his utility belt off, and leaves it on the floor next to the batarang.

“Go sit on that chair over there.” Morales says, pointing to a chair in the far corner of the room.

Damian goes and sits on the chair.

“Good,” Morales says calmly, and then shoots the runner in the head.

“No!” Damian yells, getting up but Morales whips around, lightning fast, pointing the gun at Damian.

“You– you shot him.” Damian says incredulously. “You _killed_ him!”

“I know what I did.” Morales says, walking over to a desk. The gun is still trained on Damian. He takes out a pair of handcuff from the drawer, and goes over to the chair that Damian's sitting on.

“You're a fucking _bastard_.” Damian hisses as he's handcuffed to the chair. “He was just a _boy_.”

“You think I enjoyed doing that?” Morales says. “But some people just don't learn. It's not like I enjoy hurting children, you know.”

“Oh, you love it.” Damian seethes. “You enjoy hurting them so much that you poisoned your son into believing that working for you was the best thing to do. And you got him arrested and he's going to rot in jail for the rest of his life. Because of you.”

The force of Morales’ backhand almost throws the chair backwards. Damian tastes a sudden gush of blood in his mouth. He spits it out, on Morales’ face.

Morales wipes the blood off his face. “Don't ever speak of my son again.” He says. “I don't know what you're talking about. But you're going to get a bullet in the head if you keep going.”

Damian glares at him, but he stays silent. Judging by the dead runner four feet away from Damian, Morales seems to be the kind of person who makes good on his threats.

“I'm going to figure out what to do with you,” Morales says, heading towards the door. “Until then, stay put.”

The door shuts with a slam.

Damian is left in the room, handcuffed to a chair, and sitting four feet away from a dead body.

 

*

 

Twelve and a half minutes later, the window is broken open.

Damian looks up at Bruce, and closes his eyes in relief. He feels slightly faint with it.

Bruce takes in the scene, the handcuffs, the dead body, the bruise blossoming across Damian's face, all of it.

“What _happened_?” He says, rushing over to take Damian's handcuffs off.

“The good news is, I found Pedro Morales.” Damian whispers. He feels so profoundly relieved. He feels like _hugging_ Father.

“That bad news is, I think we got a teenager killed.”

Bruce looks over at the dead runner. “That's–”

“The boy we found with the bag pack full of oxy. Yes.”

For a second, Bruce looks incredibly weary. “It was my fault then. I should never have given him a tracker.” He bows his head. “ _I_ got him killed.”

“Bruce, we don't have time.” Damian whispers urgently. “Get me out of these. We need to go.”

Bruce silently undoes his other hand, and Damian gets up, a little stiffly. Bruce starts walking back towards the window.

“No,” Damian whispers. “We need to go back downstairs.”

Bruce looks at him like he's insane.

“The books. The Morales accounts. They're all down there. At the reception.” Damian whispers.

Bruce hesitates.

“Bruce please.” Damian says. “This is the only way I can get back home.”

A silence.

“Please,” he whispers again.

Bruce shifts a little. “Fine.” He says finally. “But we need to move quick. Morales is still in the building somewhere, and we don't have time to waste.”

Damian nods. He picks up his batarang, his utility belt. They move fast, together, like a well oiled machine. They take the stairs, running swiftly but quietly down to the reception area.

When Damian gets to the desk, he jumps over to the other side, opening the drawers and taking out folder after folder.

“There's a lot of it,” he whispers. “Accounts, transcripts, shipping orders.”

“We don't need all of it,” Bruce whispers back. “Just enough for the GCPD to be able to get a judge to sign a warrant. Grab one of the accounts books and let's go.”

But Damian isn't grabbing anything. He stands stock-still, looking at something behind Bruce's head.

“What?” Bruce says, and then feels a gun pressed to his head.

“What, indeed.” Pedro Morales says.

Damian slowly puts the folders down.

“That's right. Leave it all there. Come to this side of the desk so that I can see that your hands are clear.”

Damian is trembling, but he stands his ground this time. “You'll still shoot him.” He says, his voice shaking. “I can do everything you ask me to, but you'll still kill him. I saw you do it last time.”

“That's true.” Pedro says. “But it would be more convenient for me, and less painful for him, if you came over to this side of the desk, so that I can see that your hands are clear.”

Damian feels the batarang in his hand. Small and cool and metallic. All of a sudden, he knows what he must do.

“Alright,” he says, his voice small. He comes over to the other side of the desk, takes a deep breath, and stabs Pedro Morales in the eye.

The scream that comes from his throat is unlike anything Damian's ever heard before. All of a sudden, there is only noise. The rapid pounding of Damian's heart, Bruce yelling _“What did you do?_ ”, Morales flailing and yelling. He feels numb. He's stuck there, staring at them. He feels oddly separated from the present. It feels like he's underwater, and everything else is happening above ground.

Bruce pulls the knife out from Morales’ eye swiftly, and the screaming only gets louder. He produces a bandage from somewhere, wrapping it tight around his head. Damian just watches. Can't do anything but watch.

 

In the end, they leave Morales there, on the floor of the reception. He's not dead, but he's far from alive. They call 911 to his location and they just leave him there.

In the batmobile, there is a stony silence. Damian feels sick. Bruce won't say anything to him. He looks down at the blood on his hands. He tries to wipe it off on his suit but there's already some on his suit. It's everywhere. Tears prick at his eyes.

“You were going to kill him.” Bruce says, his voice hard. He won't even look at Damian. He's just looking straight ahead, through the windshield.

“Yes.” Damian says, very quiet.

“You won't even deny it.” Bruce says, his voice harder and angrier still.

“No.” Damian says. He looks up, up at the top of the car, trying to keep himself from crying.

“Why?” Bruce says, like that's actually a question worth asking.

“Because he was going to kill _you_!” Damian says. “And I couldn't let that happen.” He says, and he hears his voice crack, weak. He hated it.

Bruce shakes his head. “Nothing is worth killing someone else.” He says. His hands are tight on the wheel.

“It is for me.” Damian says, wiping at the tears on his face. “It is for _me_. I would do it again and again for you.”

Bruce looks at him then, looks at him in a way that clearly conveys what he thinks about him. Damian’s chest aches in shame and pain and guilt, but mostly he feels anger.

Damian's face begins to crumple. “Ask me why.” He says, his voice thin, his shoulders shaking.

Bruce says nothing. He goes back to staring ahead at the windshield.

“Ask me,” Damian yells, “why.”

“Why,” Bruce says. They've reached that batcave. They're going through the tunnels now.

“I think you already know, Bruce. You already see the similarities. You’re just lying to yourself. My eyes, and yours. I keep slipping up and almost calling you something else. I know all the family stories. I look like you. I think like you. I talk like you.”

The car stops with a jolt. They've reached the batcave. Damian wipes at his eyes again. He realises that he's been wiping his face with bloody hands the whole time. The thought almost makes him gag. It makes him cry harder.

“You're my father,” Damian says. “And you raised a monster.”

 

*

 

He packs.

In the end, there's not much else to do. He puts his meager possessions in a bag. His toothbrush. His clothes. The star trek t shirt that he stares at for far too long.

He had stalked off after his confession, going straight up to his room to wash his hands and face and shower, scrubbing hard enough at himself that maybe all those invisible bloodstains would go away.

It didn't seem right to stay anymore. Perhaps he could leave a note for Pennyworth, write about how much he had liked it here, how nice it had been for the last four days.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and stares at his suitcase. Okay. So he won't lie. He'll write about how _amazing_ it had been for the last four days.

A knock on the door startles him.

Bruce opens the door. He's in a t shirt and sweats and he looks tired and pale.

Damian stands. “What?”

Bruce closes the door behind him, and then steps forward to Damian. He's looking at him very intently, like he's searching for something.

He seems to have found it, because he steps closer and hugs him.

“You're my son,” Bruce whispers. “And I'm sorry that I don't love you yet, but I have a feeling I learn how, really fast, thirteen years later.”

Damian almost starts to cry again. He swallows instead, and hugs his father back.

“You're not a monster,” Bruce says quietly. “You're my son.”

  
  



	5. 07/04/2004

**07/04/2004**

 

“Okay,” Bruce says in the morning, his arms crossed in front of him. There’s none of that softness that he'd shown last night. “So now you're going to talk.” 

Damian nods, looking down. They're sitting in the dining room again, with Pennyworth standing next to Bruce, his sharp eyes taking in every word of what Damian says.

“My mother is Talia Al Ghul,” Damian says, and Bruce inhales sharply.

“That's not possible.” He says. “There wasn't–” he pauses. Reconsiders. “When did you say your birthday was?”

“I didn't.” Damian says. “But you – you calculate that it was sometime around late April, early May.” 

Damian waits as Bruce does the mental calculations. 

“You defected from the League of Assassins a little less than a year ago.” Damian says quietly. “It's now July.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “So you're saying, somewhere out there, in one of Talia's safehouses, there's a two month old baby that she's hiding from me.”

“Well,” Damian pauses. “Yes.”

Pennyworth puts his plate down his front of him rather harder than he'd have expected. 

Bruce gets up. Puts his hands flat on the table. “This is – this is _crazy_.” He says. “This is insane. She can't keep that a secret from me.”

“She tells you, eventually.” Damian says.

“Eventually.” Bruce says, hollowly. “Eventually when?”

“When I turn ten.” Damian says.

Bruce licks his lips. “Ten,” he says, a little hoarsely. “She doesn't tell me for ten years.”

Damian shakes his head.

“And– and you're saying she trained you. That you learned to swing a sword before you could talk. And you had to scale cliffs so high that you almost passed out.”

Damian shrugs.

Bruce looks at him, his eyes blazing. “You were a child. You _are_ a child. That's torture.”

“I never minded.” Damian says. Well. Once or twice, perhaps. But it taught him what he needed to learn. It made him as good at what he did as he needed to be. 

“Mother never forced me to do anything I didn't want to do.” Damian says. “I always gave my consent.”

“But your consent doesn't count for anything, not when you're a child, and you're raised in a cult, taught from the day you were born to _believe_ –” Bruce realises he's starting to raise his voice, and sighs.

He sits back down, his shoulders slumped. He studies the wood grain on the table. “I'm going back there,” he says quietly. “And I'm going to bring you home.” 

Damian looks down at his empty plate. “You know you can't do that,” he says, after while.

There is a silence.

“You keep assuming that the future you belong to right now is the best one,” Bruce says finally. “What if– what if we altered the timeline, and it turned out well for all of us? You could go to school and have friends and have a normal life here. You could be _happy_ , Damian.” Bruce says. If Damian didn't know him so well, it would almost sound like he was pleading.

Damian frowns. “I was happy there too. I was homeschooled, and I had friends. Mother let me have a pony.”

Bruce shakes his head, scrubbing at his face. “A son,” he says. “I have a son.” 

He looks up at Pennyworth. “I'm too young to be a father." He says, desperately.

“Actually,” Damian says, slowly. “You have more than one son.”

For the first time in his life, Damian sees Pennyworth put the rest of the plates and glasses down on the table, and sit on one of the chairs next to Bruce.

“I, for one, really want to hear this,” Pennyworth says. 

“You adopted a _few_ children.” Damian says weakly, looking at Bruce.

“A _few_?” Bruce says, his voice sounding slightly high. “How many is a _few_?”

Damian does a quick mental headcount. “Four. Not including me. And I suppose there's also Brown. And Thomas.” 

“ _Seven_ children.” Bruce says, his eyes wide. 

Pennyworth sips his tea. “Oh, dear.” He says. 

“Not really?” Damian says. “Brown and Thomas wouldn't really consider you their father. They just hang around at home a lot.”

“What kind of a name for a child is Brown, anyway? Why am I naming children after colours? Have I had a midlife crisis? Be honest with me, here.” Bruce says, putting his head in his hands. He looks a little more distressed than Damian had expected.

“Her name is Stephanie.” Damian says. “Stephanie Brown. And Thomas's first name is Duke. And I told you. You didn't name any of them. They had parents.”

“Alright,” Bruce says. “So just five children though. Because that's so much better.” He laughs a little hysterically.

Damian leans slightly over to Pennyworth. “Is he. . . quite alright?”

Pennyworth shrugs imperceptibly. “I think he's taking it rather well, all things considered.”

“Al,” Bruce says, still slightly wide-eyed, running a hand through his hair. “I'm not ready to take care of a small child. Or small _children_. I can barely take care of myself.”

“You’ll learn.” Damian says. “And I think you were quite good at it. Grayson told me that you used to sit in the front row for all his gymnastics competitions.”

“I'm a dad,” Bruce says, putting his head down on the table. “Oh my god. Gymnastics competitions. Oh my god.”

“I think,” Pennyworth says, leaning over, “you broke him.”

“Hmm.” Damian says. 

“Wait a minute,” Bruce raises his head quickly. “Did you say Grayson? Like your last name?”

“Oh,” Damian says, wincing. “Ah. Yes. I might have made that up. My last name is Wayne. I took on my brother's name when the social worker asked. Richard Grayson. But everyone calls him Dick.”

“ _Dick_ ,” Bruce says. He puts his head back down on the table. “I have a son named _Dick_.” He says, his voice muffled.

“He prefers being called that,” Damian informs him. “I don't know why.”

“I don't– your name is Damian _Wayne_?” Bruce says. 

Damian nods.

“Oh my god.” Bruce says again. He doesn't lift his head from the table for the next five minutes. Damian drinks his apple juice. 

“He's processing,” Pennyworth says to him. 

Damian shrugs.

“What about the rest?” Bruce says. 

“What?” 

“What about the rest of the children. What are their names?”

Damian blinks. “Oh. Well. Grayson's the eldest, and then there's Todd. Jason Todd. He turned nineteen recently. Then there's Tim Drake. Drake is seventeen. Or sixteen. Who knows. I can't bring myself to care about his age, really.” 

Bruce rubs at his temples. “My future children have future sibling rivalries.” He says, sounding awed.

“And there's Cassandra. She's eighteen. And me.” 

“So you're the youngest,” Bruce says.

Damian scowls. “Maybe in age. But in fighting prowess I far outrank all of them. Except perhaps Cain.”

“Cain?”

“Cassandra.” 

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Damian looks up, at the crystal chandelier in the dining room ceiling. “You know,” he says. “I've figured most things out, except where this chandelier went.”

Bruce shakes his head. He gets up again. “I need– some time. I think I'm just going to,” he trails off. “Five kids.” He says again. He looks at Damian. “Are you absolutely sure?” He says.

“Yes.” Damian says.

“Huh.” Bruce says. “Huh.” and then he just stares off into space for a while.

“I broke him.” Damian whispers, and Pennyworth nods.

*

 

Pedro Morales gets arrested. They watch it on the news, on the TV in Bruce's study. They have the incriminating evidence, they have a dead body on site, and the GCPD has a bias towards Falcone. It should all add up. 

Damian waits with bated breath. Now that Morales has been arrested, his future will change. His son won't grow up to be a crime lord, and he won't ever have to arrest him. He'll never be sent back in time. Any moment now, it should happen. Any moment now.

But nothing happens for the rest of the day. Damian sits, watching the news, the disappointment curling up in the pit of his stomach. 

They find out why, in the afternoon. Pedro Morales claims he was attacked by Falcone’s men. That they planted the evidence and the dead body on him. That they were the ones that attacked him. The GCPD remains unconvinced, but the DA seems interested in his case. 

His name is Harvey Dent.

They watch as Harvey gives a statement during a press conference, talking about the invisible war taking place in Gotham that's been engineered by the Falcone family. How they, as citizens must take a stand. How Mr. Morales, a hardworking immigrant father, has been made a victim to a horrible crime wave that's sweeping through Gotham and leaving no survivors. How he's going to personally defend Mr. Morales in court.

He gets a standing ovation. 

Damian puts his head in his hands. “They're painting him as an _underdog_.” He says.

“Harvey’s a friend,” Bruce says. “I'll speak to him. He really hates the Falcones. His methods of taking them on are. . . a little unconventional, but he listens to reason. I can get him to drop the case.”

Damian shakes his head. “Don't bother. We can't interfere with the Morales' problem anymore. We've changed so much of the past already. _I've_ changed so much.” 

Bruce is silent. He's thinking. He's not going to be able to come up with anything, Damian knows. He stares at the TV screen, at Harvey Dent smiling winningly, a white flash of teeth. The reporters are still clapping. They love him. He's going to win.

“What do we do,” Damian whispers.

“I don't know.” Bruce says.

*

 

That night, at the fourth of July benefit, Bruce kills it while giving the speech. 

“Mr. Wayne, that was amazing,” some woman who's name he's forgotten beams at him, once he gets off the stage. He's seen her somewhere. Katie from research? Cathy?

“Thanks, . . . Caitlin.” he smiles, taking a wild guess.

It turns out to be a good one, because Caitlin beams harder. “I loved what you said about the veterans,” she says. “It was super touching, Mr. Wayne.”

“I’m a deeply compassionate person, Cait.” Bruce grins. 

Jamie Riley comes up from behind them. “That was pretty good delivery, Mr. Wayne,” he says, grinning. “This is my girlfriend.” He says, putting an arm around Caitlin. Caitlin smiles dreamily.

“Oh, you're the one he bought the pop-up toaster for.” Bruce says. He holds up his untouched champagne flute. “Making toast for each other. That's true love.”

Caitlin laughs, and then her face falls. “Oh my god, Jamie. That's your boss.” She says, looking at someone behind Bruce. 

Jamie goes pale. “Who? Mr. Castaneda? Crap.”

Bruce looks around. He can see a short man making his way towards them. “This is the guy who talks about his watch a whole lot?”

Jamie nods. 

“Don't worry, Johnny. I can take care of him.” Bruce says. Caitlin frowns. “Actually, his name is–”

“Just leave it, honey.” Jamie whispers.

Bruce smiles at the short man coming over to them.

“Mr. Castaneda!” He says. “It's good to see you.”

Castaneda smiles. “That was a good speech you gave, Wayne. Say, I couldn't help but notice that you were wearing one of those new silver Rolex models. I have one just like it. Got it from Switzerland, made specifically for my requirements, see?” showing Bruce his watch.

Bruce sees and nods patiently.

“So the story goes that I land up in Switzerland for a business convention. The only problem is, I have some time to kill before my workshop. So I'm walking down the street in Zürich, sipping on some of this amazing artisanal coffee they make there, when–”

“Oh!” Caitlin interrupts, pointing up. “They're starting with the fireworks!”

Bruce looks up. “Excuse me,” he says, “but I have to go inside for a minute.”

“But you'll miss the fireworks, Mr. Wayne,” Jamie says.

“I'll be back in just a minute.” Bruce says again, making his way through the crowd and all the waiters carrying champagne and Hors d'oeuvres on silver trays.

He walks into the manor, past the foyer and up to the first floor. He knocks on a guest bedroom door.

The door opens. “What,” Damian says, somewhat crabbily, rubbing at his eyes. He's in his pajamas, and he has a bad case of bedhead. He looks adorable. Bruce enjoys having all of his limbs firmly attached to his body, so he makes sure not to tell him that.

“The fireworks are starting.” Bruce says. “Wanna go up to the roof?”

Damian stops rubbing at his eyes. “The roof?” He says.

“Sure. It's got the best view.”

Damian opens his mouth, and closes it again. “You'll miss your party.” He says finally.

“Trust me,” Bruce says. “There isn't much to miss.”

“But, they'll see us. If we're on the roof.” 

“No one's going to be looking that way. Everyone's going to be look up at the sky, towards the west lawns.”

Damian blinks again. “I'm in my pajamas.” He says, seemingly having exhausted all other arguments. 

“And I'm in a suit.” Bruce says. “You regularly beat up people wearing tights and a cape. You can manage to climb a roof in pajamas. Or can't you?”

Damian frowns. “Don't be ridiculous. Of course I can.”

“Good.” Bruce says. “Then let's go.”

 

So they go up to the roof. And they watch the fireworks.

Damian sits with his arms around his knees. He frowns up at the sky.

“I don't like fireworks.” He says. “They scare animals, you know. Titus, my dog, can't stand them. He's a big baby. Batcow doesn't really mind though.”

“I’m sorry, but I think I just heard you say batcow.” Bruce says.

“She’s my pet cow.” Damian says. “I rescued her from a slaughterhouse. She likes belly rubs and listening to Elvis Presley.”

Bruce scrubs at his face. “Now you're just saying words.” He says.

“No, really.” Damian insists. “I read a study that said animals are happier when they listen to classical music. But batcow didn't seem to like Bach, so I played something a little more modern. She particularly likes _Hound Dog._ ”

“I must be hallucinating.” Bruce mumbles. He shakes his head. “Anyway. As for the fireworks, I think that having them once in a while is fine.” He says. It's a warm night, so he takes off his blazer, slinging it over his arm. “They're very beautiful.”

“Hnn.” Damian says, frowning.

Bruce looks at him. “We can go back down, if you want.” 

“No,” Damian says quickly. “No. This is – nice.” He moves a little closer to him, until their arms are touching.

“Okay,” Bruce says. 

The fireworks soar up, bright ribbons of light in the dark.

“Damian,” Bruce says, a little hesitant.

“What?”

“What's the future like?” 

Damian thinks. “There's a lot more people.” He says. “The manor feels a little less empty.”  

“And that's good,” Bruce says. It doesn't sound like a question, but Damian knows his father well enough that he understands that it is one.

“Of course it's good.” Damian says, surprised. “What, did you think you'd be alone forever?”

Bruce gives a small, imperceptible shrug.

“Well. You're not. So don't be ridiculous.” Damian says. He looks at Bruce, and his voice softens. “The future is a good place.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

They watch the fireworks for a while. Some of the brighter ones illuminate the roof.

Damian stares at them, and suddenly the pieces all click together in his brain.

“Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Bruce says.

Damian starts to laugh, his shoulders shaking. 

“What is it?” Bruce says, confused.

“I figured out why that stupid chandelier isn't in the dining room anymore.” Damian says, laughing harder. “It's because Grayson kept cartwheeling off of the thing. I remember all the childhood stories.”

“ _What_?” Bruce says again. 

Damian shakes his head. “Nothing.” He says, wiping his eyes, laughing. “Never mind.” 

The fireworks show ends and everyone starts to clap. Up on the roof, Damian puts his head on his father's shoulder.

"How good can the future be if there are children somersaulting off of my chandeliers?" Bruce says. Damian snorts.

"You'd be surprised," he says.

 

 


	6. 07/05/2004

**07/05/2004.**

 

In the morning, Damian sits up on his bed, rubbing at his eyes. It's late, he realises. He looks at the digital watch on the bedside table. Almost nine. He's slept in.

Damian curses, getting to his feet. A breakfast tray has been left on the side table. There's a bowl of cereal on it. Cereal.

Damian stares. In all his three years in the manor, he's never once had to eat cereal for breakfast. And definitely not cornflakes.

There's a small note on the tray, next to the bowl. It reads:

_Alfred's day off today. The best I could do. Come down to the East lawn. I have a plan._

_–B._

Damian forces down the lukewarm cornflakes, and goes down to the east lawns. He sees a figure crouched over a pit, holding– is that a _chainsaw_?

“Hey!” Damian yells over the noise, his hands cupped around his mouth.

The loud whirring sound of the machine dies. Damian realises that it is not, in fact, a chainsaw. It's a heavy duty weedcutter.

“Are you doing _landscaping_ work?” Damian says, incredulously.

“No,” Bruce says, and then continues to trim the weeds around a pit in the lawn. The loud whirring starts up again.

“Then what are you doing?” Damian yells over the din.

“Clearing the grass around the pit!” Bruce yells back, in reply.

“What?” Damian shouts. He can't hear a thing.

“Clearing the grass over the pit!” Bruce yells again.

“Huh?” Damian shouts.

“Oh for _god's_ sake–” Bruce switches off the weedcutter.

“Thank you.” Damian says, holding his ears tenderly. It's only  slightly for dramatic effect. He looks at the pit that Bruce was clearing the overgrown weeds and grass around.

“What _is_ that?” He says.

“I'm developing a tunnel,” Bruce says. “Into which the batmobile can go directly into the cave. The problem is that I have to do all the digging work myself, so it's going to take a while.”

“You haven't made the tunnels to the cave yet?” Damian says, incredulously.

“There's  _ one _ tunnel that's natural, it's part of the system of caves. But it also has a natural stream in it, and I'm tired of the batmobile getting drenched every time I have to pass by it.”

“Oh,” Damian says. He remembers that tunnel. They use it as an emergency exit now.

He peers at the pit. It's not very big. “The batmobile’s going to pass through. . . that?”

“I said,” Bruce says slightly defensively, “that I was working on it, didn't I? It's still in its preliminary stages.”

Damian looks at the pit dubiously. “Okay.” He says. He shakes his head, remembering. “Listen, you said you had a plan of some sort?”

“Yes.” Bruce says, putting the strange weedcutter-chainsaw amalgamation aside. “When you first came here, you talked about some kind of reverse. . . flash?”

“Yes. He kidnapped me. Pedro Morales paid him.”

“And then you went on to talk about the Flash, right? Who you said would be sixteen years old, in this year?”

Damian blinks. He doesn't quite know where Bruce is going with this. “Yes.” He says.

“So maybe we could track him down, and give him a message for his future self. To come and pick you up, I mean.”

Damian blinks again. “I couldn't possibly explain in how many different ways that plan could go wrong even if I had a week.”

Bruce sighs, looking at the pit. “Well. It was just a suggestion.”

A few seconds of silence.

“Maybe. . . if we went to Wally's place."

"Wally?" Bruce says.

"He's flash's nephew. There's two of them actually, both named after the same grandfather. Both called kid flash."

"What?"

"Nothing. It's complicated. Look, the Wally I know, he works in a team with me. We're called the teen titans. He would only be three, I think. I could. . . write a message for him in a code that the Teen Titans use. So he couldn't try and find me too early, before he learned the code, and before he properly learned how to travel through time.” Damian says, thinking.

“So you're saying it could work?”

“I think it's our only option, at this point.” Damian says.

Bruce looks at him. “You think so?”

“Yes.” Damian says.

 

*

 

They drive to central city. Bruce takes the Dodge Viper. It's a warm day, and he puts the top down as they drive down Route 90. 

The wind ruffles Damian's hair, and he scowls. Bruce grins. 

“Did you really have to do that?” He says.

“Do what,” Bruce says.

“Put the top down. I was listening to some music on this,” he says, holding up an mp3 player. “Now I can't hear a thing.”

Bruce shrugs. “It's a nice day outside.”

But Damian has moved on to more important things. He looks at the mp3 player in disgust. “Don't you have anything more. . . modern?”

“I have an iPod shuffle.” Bruce says. “That's pretty modern.”

Damian snickers.

“What?” Bruce says.

“Nothing.” Damian says, smirking.

Bruce frowns. “You know, I can tell when someone is making fun of me. I'm from the past, not stupid.”

Damian smiles. “It's just that no one uses iPods anymore. We just store music in our phones.”

Bruce takes his flip phone out from his jean's pocket. “In this?” Bruce says, doubtfully.

Damian starts laughing again. 

Bruce sighs. “I'm going to abandon you on the side of this highway.” He says.

Damian snorts. “Guess I'll just have to call Alfred to come pick me up using someone's  _ flip phone _ , then.” He says, and starts laughing again.

Bruce sighs some more.

 

*

 

They drive by a suburb just outside the city. They stop by an ordinary looking house. There's a car parked in the driveway, and the remains of what looks to be a Fourth of July barbecue in the yard. 

“This is the place?” Bruce says. 

Damian nods.

“Alright,” Bruce says, getting out of the car. “Let's stick to the plan.” 

Damian nods again. Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck,” Bruce says. “Don't get caught.”

Bruce goes up to the front door and rings the doorbell. Damian meanwhile, moves towards the back of the house, looking for a back door. He climbs over the fence.

The front door opens. “Yes?” He hears a woman say.

“Mrs. West?” He can hear Bruce say, his voice pleasant and affable. 

“Yes?” He hears her say again.

“Congratulations. You won the grand prize in the Mega millions yearly lottery, there's rewards worth–”

He finds the back door, and he sneaks in. The kitchen is empty; there are dishes in the sink and an empty plastic yoghurt cup on the table. There's a toddler sitting in a high chair, looking at him with wide eyes.

There's a man washing a plate in the sink, but his back is turned, and he can't see Damian.

“Sshh,” Damian whispers, before Wally can cry out. “West. It is imperative that you stay quiet. As your team leader, this is a direct order.”

Wally spits up some yoghurt.

“That's disgusting.” Damian says.

Wally looks suitable chastised. His lower lip starts to tremble.

“No, no,” Damian says frantically. “don't cry, okay? Here,” he says, picking up some kind of stuffed animal from the floor, and depositing it onto his lap. “Here, play with this.”

Wally takes the toy, banging it on the table excitedly.

“What's up, Wals?” His dad says cheerfully, not looking up from the dishes.

“Sshh!” Damian whispers again, glaring at Wally.

Wally reluctantly stops banging the table.

“Don't make any noise. I have to go upstairs. If you give me away, trust me when I say that I _will_ fire you from the teen titans.” Damian says. “I don't make any exceptions for babies. Am I understood?”

Wally nods solemnly. He goes back to playing with his stuffed toy.

Damian sneaks up the stairs carefully. He walks down the short hallway to the second bedroom. Wally's room. 

He opens the door, walking past the crib and the little bookshelf with children's books in it. Looks up at the ceiling. Where had Wally said he hid his suit, again?

There. There in the ceiling, he can see a loose tile. But it's very high up. He pushes the little bookshelf over to the middle of the room. Takes a permanent marker and a piece of paper out from his pocket, and scrawls out a code on it. It's standard JL encryption, designed by Father himself. He makes sure everyone on the team knows it. Damian can write and read it in without having to refer to the key. 

Once he's done writing the message, he steps back and takes a look at it. Looks about right.

It reads: 

_ Wally. It's Robin. By the time you understand this code, you will know who I am, because I taught it to you. Come to Wayne Manor, West Lawn at 8:00 in the morning on 6th July, 2004. I will be waiting. This is urgent. _

_ – Damian Wayne. _

Damian takes a deep breath, and hopes to god that Wally doesn't lose the piece of paper when he first finds it. Or that the future that Damian has  accidentally constructed isn't quite so distorted that Wally has never met Damian, and as a result never learned the code.

He steps onto the bookshelf, and slides the loose ceiling tile a little to one side. There's a hollow space there, between the tiles and the actual concrete ceiling. Just big enough for a costume that you wouldn't want anyone to know about. That, and a little piece of paper.

He shoves the piece of paper in and slides the tile back over the hollow space. Then he jumps back down from the shelf. He pushes the shelf back against the wall quickly. Walks hurriedly down the stairs. He can hear faint voices from the living room.

“. . . flattered, really. But we didn't buy any lottery tickets, I think you've got the wrong address.”

“Oh no, that couldn't be possible, Mrs. West. You  _ are _ Mrs. West, aren't you?” 

“Yes, but–”

Damian sneaks back into the kitchen, and runs headfirst into Mr. West.

There is a brief silence.

Mr. West seems as surprised as Damian is. He's in a dressing gown and slippers, and he's reading the newspapers, sitting next to Wally's high chair. He clutches his cup of tea defensively.

Wally giggles. “Pa-pa!” He shouts, pointing.

Damian starts to back up slowly. 

“Sweetheart,” Mr. West calls out, blinking, his voice slightly raised. “There's a kid in our kitchen.”

“Of _course_ there's a kid in our kitchen, he's our _baby_ , for god's sake.” Mrs. West yells back from the living room. Her tone lowers again. “Really, Mr.–,”

"Malone."

"Mr. Malone," she starts to say, in a more pleasant tone, “I think you've got the wrong person. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really have to-” 

“No, I mean a kid that's _not_ our baby.” Mr. West says again. He hasn't put his newspaper down yet. He seems to have forgotten to.

Damian holds his hands up in a gesture of goodwill, “I'm just going to go out the back do–”

“What?” Mrs. West says, coming into the kitchen. And then she screams.

“Oh boy,” Mr. West says.

Bruce has followed Mrs. West from the living room, and he's currently rubbing at his temples. 

“Look,” Damian says, a little desperately. “I'm a friend of your son's.”

Mrs. West looks between him and her three year old son giggling in a high chair, with wide eyes, as if to indicate just how shaky she finds that argument to be.

She looks back at Bruce. And then at her husband, who's still, for some reason, holding his cup of tea.

“Are the two of you together?” Mrs. West says, pointing between him and Bruce. 

There is a silence.

“I'm calling the police,” she starts to say, but Bruce steps forward, cutting in.

“Mrs. West,” he says, “I just wanted to say that the winnings you received in your lottery, they included a 2004 dodge viper SRT-10 convertible.”

Mrs. West frowns. “What does that have–”

Mr. West holds up a hand. “Now hold on just a second, honey. Let the man talk.”

Bruce takes his keys out of his jeans pocket. “You could call the police. Or we could just leave now, and I could hand you over the keys to your new car.”

Mrs. West glares at him. 

“Hon,” Mr. West says. “Whatever the kid stole was probably less expensive than the car anyway.”

“You want to let them get away with it? Our _child_ was in the house. What if he'd got hurt?”

“I was in the kitchen with him!” Mr. West says. 

Bruce puts the keys down on the kitchen table, far from Wally's reach. “I'm going to leave with him now." He says, pointing to Damian. "I'm so sorry for intruding, but there was a reason for what we did. I had to do it for my son." He looks at Damian. "You must know what that's like."

Damian swallows.

"Come on," Bruce says, putting an arm on Damian's back. "Let's go."

The Wests watch them leave, warily.

On the way out of the kitchen, Bruce stops.  He pauses. “And if it's any consolation, I really love that car.”

“It's not.” Mrs. West spits. “Get out.”

They get out.

Outside the house, they stare at the Dodge Viper parked at the curb. 

“Guess we're going to have to take a cab.” Bruce says.

Damian checks his pockets. “I left my mp3 player in there.” He says. He feels strangely sad about it.

Bruce takes his wallet out of his pocket. He frowns.

“What.” Damian says.

“Guess we're going to have to take a train.” Bruce mutters.

 

*

 

It's only three hours later, in the shitty second class compartment of the train halfway back to Gotham, does it occur to them that this was actually hilarious.

“Mr. West was in his _dressing gown_ ,” Damian says, wheezing. “He tried to ward me off with a cup of _tea_.”

Everyone is staring at them, apparently slowly starting to lose their minds.

“And I heard him say ' _oh boy_ ’” Bruce chuckles. 

One of the passengers gives Bruce a weird look and draws her children closer. They just laugh harder.

“And you tried to convince his wife that you were friends with a toddler.” Bruce says.

“Wally kept spitting up yoghurt.” Damian says. “I think he got some on your car keys.” His stomach hurts from laughing.

“Oh no,” Bruce says. 

“What?”

“That baby's going to sick up in my Viper. Or– or wet his diaper in it.” Bruce looks horrified. “Those interiors were custom made.”

Damian laughs so hard that the passenger closest to them goes and sits on a different seat.

  
  
  
  



	7. 07/06/2004

**07/06/2004.**

 

Damian is up before dawn. He sits up and looks out the window. It's still dark out. There's a faint orange streak pressing up against it, pushing away the dark. Sunrise.

He presses his fingers against the cool glass, his breath fogging it up.

Today. Today is the day.

He can feel the hope welling up under the tips of his fingers. Under his skin. He can go _home_.

But only if everything works out, he reminds himself. Only if everything goes to plan.

But it's hard to stay pessimistic when the sun is coming out, and the birds are singing. He smiles. He feels positively _delighted_.

In one corner of the grounds, he can see Bruce practicing Tai Chi. 

He grins again, and goes down to see him.

 

*

 

“Good morning,” Damian says. 

Bruce says nothing. He's sitting cross-legged on the grass, his eyes closed and his palms flat against his knees. 

Damian clears his throat. 

“Good morning,” he says again, more pointedly.

“I,” Bruce says, his eyes still closed, “am meditating.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “You train too much.” He says.

“You've said that before.”

Damian flops down on the grass next to Bruce. “Because it's true.”

“Mm.” Bruce says. “Let me concentrate.”

Damian sighs, and stays silent for the next five minutes or so, until Bruce has finished meditating. 

When he gets to his feet, Damian rises as well. 

“Are we going back in for breakfast now?” Damian asks.

“ _I'm_ going to finish up my drills.” Bruce says. “You can go in. Ask Alfred to make you something.”

Damian huffs. “But we need to get ready early, you know. Kid Flash is coming to pick me up at eight, remember?”

“I remember,” Bruce says. He gets himself into position and does a three punch combo, coupled with a spinning right heel kick.

“You're fighting the air.” Damian observes, dryly.

“It's called Tai Chi.” Bruce grunts.

“I  _ know _ what it's called I just–” Damian huffs again. “It's our last meal together. Just come in, alright?”

Bruce stops doing his drills. He looks at Damian. 

Damian raises his eyebrows.

“Fine.” Bruce grunts. “I'll come in.”

They walk back to the manor in companionable silence. At least, companionable for Damian. Bruce seems preoccupied with something, an inscrutable shadow on his face.

“What's wrong?” Damian says.

“Nothing.”

Damian rubs at his forehead. “You're not having a _day_ again, are you?”

“No,” Bruce says. He looks worn and tired. Damian looks at him curiously.

They walk up the steps to the stoop of the Manor's main door, and it occurs to Damian all of a sudden. He stops walking.

“What is it,” Bruce says.

“You're upset that I'm going away,” Damian says, his eyes wide. Then he grins. “You're going to _miss_ me.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Bruce smiles back. “Both Alfred's topiary and I will be glad to see you go.” He says, nudging him gently.

Damian scowls. “Tt. That was _once_. There was a Katana nearby and I was bored.”

“Right.” Bruce says, ruffling his hair. Damian scowls again and dodges Bruce's hand, fixing his hair. 

At the kitchen, Pennyworth greets them with a veritable cornucopia of food. There's biscuits and pancakes and fruits and toast. And orange juice for Damian. 

“For your last day, master Damian.” He says. “And as an apology for being absent from my services yesterday, leaving you to the suffer through Master Wayne's pitiful excuse for breakfast.”

“Oh, come on,” Bruce says, already steadily plowing through his share of breakfast, “It was fine, Al.”

“It was _cornflakes_.” Damian says. 

“Oh, you poor boy.” Pennyworth says, emphatically.

Bruce rolls his eyes and mutters something about the two of them being too damned dramatic. Damian grins again.

An hour and four pancakes and three pieces of toast later, Damian leans back in his chair. 

“I'm going to be sick.” He announces. 

“That's how you know you really ate well.” Bruce says. They're alone in the room; Pennyworth is in the kitchen, tidying up. He's reading the paper, his brow furrowed. 

“What's the matter?” Damian says.

“Morales got out on bail. His trial’s in August.”

“Oh.” Damian says. “I suppose it doesn't matter much anymore. Wally will be able to reverse all changes we made to the timeline.” 

“Right.” Bruce says. But he's still frowning.

Damian rights himself a little to take a look at newspaper. There's a mugshot of Morales above it. He's wearing an eye patch, Damian notes guiltily. 

And then Damian sees something next to the article that makes his breath stop short. An advertisement. 

“Bruce,” Damian says slowly, like he's in a dream. “Did you have any plans for today?”

Bruce frowns. “Plans?”

“Yes. Do you have anything important to do.”

“Yes, I want to pay a visit to Harvey about this whole Morales case. Why do you ask?”

“Cancel it.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “And why would I do that?” He says.

Damian jabs his finger on the advertisement. “Maybe– maybe you should go there instead. Once I've left, I mean.”

Bruce reads the advertisement. “Haly's circus.” He frowns. “What would I do going to a circus, Damian?” 

“You might like it.” Damian says. “You might find that it changes your life.”

Bruce frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Read the rest of the advertisement.” Damian says.

Bruce reads out loud. “Haly's circus. Coming to Gotham from 4th to 6th July. Known for their famous act, the Flying Grays–” here Bruce stops short. He looks up at Damian. “Graysons.” He says.

Damian nods.

“As in– the one who–”

“Yes.”

Bruce looks down at the newspaper again. “My son.” He says.

“Yes.”

A silence.

“He's an acrobat.” Damian says. “A trapeze artist.”

“Oh,” Bruce says, and then nothing more. He's clutching onto the newspaper like he wants it to tell him what to do.

Damian checks his wristwatch. “Bruce, it's seven fifty.” He says.

Bruce looks up, some of the haze clearing in his eyes. He nods. “Right.” He says. “Let's go.”

They go to the West Lawn, but not before Pennyworth manages to slip Damian some more toast. 

“For the journey, master Damian.” he says.

Damian looks at him disbelievingly. “There  _ is _ no journey, Pennyworth. I will be travelling in time, not space.”

“And I'm sure that will be exhausting as well.” Pennyworth says tartly. “Eat your toast.” 

“Fine.”

“Very good.” A pause. “I will miss your company, master Damian.”

Damian grins. “I know, Pennyworth.” He says. “But just you wait. Bruce is going to the circus today.”

“Oh dear.” Pennyworth says. “I'm afraid Master Bruce has a rather large grudge against clowns.”

Damian snorts. “It's not that kind of circus. Think more along the lines of cirque du soleil. He's going to love it.”

“Oh?” Pennyworth says, obviously slightly confused with the direction in which this conversation is going. 

Damian just shakes his head, smiling. “I'd say I'd miss you too, Pennyworth, but I'm going to see you again in around fifteen minutes.”

“With no hair, this time.” Pennyworth says.

“With no hair this time.”

“I shudder just to think of it,” Pennyworth declares, but he pats Damian on the shoulder. “Safe travels, master Damian. You will be missed.”

“Bye Pennyworth. Thanks for all the food.” Damian says, and hugs him. 

“Oh dear,” Pennyworth says again, patting his back.

At the table, Bruce is still looking at the advertisement, mystified.

 

*

 

They wait in the West lawn. Damian has his Robin suit on again. They wait for a long time. At the very least, it feels like an eternity for Damian. He plucks at some grass. Throws it away. Plucks at some more. Meanwhile, Bruce is motionless. He stands still, his expression abstract. 

After a while, Damian gets tired of plucking grass.

“What time is it?” he asks. The sun has risen overhead. It's hot now. As hot as it had been on the first day that he had arrived here.

Bruce checks his wristwatch. “Eight thirty.” He says.

Damian swallows against the panic in his throat. “He's coming.” Damian says.

Bruce is silent.

“He is.” Damian says. “He's coming.”

They wait another ten minutes.

“Damian,” Bruce starts to say.

“Don't.” Damian says viciously. “Don't say it.”

Bruce falls silent.

Another fifteen minutes.

The sun glares down at them, and Damian adjusts his suit a little. The heat is unforgiving.

“Damian,” Bruce says softly. “I think we should go back inside.”

Damian sighs. He wipes at his eyes discretely enough that he thinks Bruce doesn't notice. But Bruce does, because he's Bruce and he always notices, and he puts a hand on Damian's back. 

“I'm sorry.” He says quietly.

Damian shakes his head. “It's fine.” He says. They should go back. There's no use sitting here in the hot sun in an inch thick Kevlar bodysuit. There's no point.

They get up, and they start walking back towards the manor.

Zero point five seconds later, something incredible happens.

A boy in a yellow suit tumbles out of thin air, two feet above the ground.

“Ow goddamnit,” the boy says, landing somewhat awkwardly on his knees, and then, after looking around him, he says, “holy shit it actually  _ worked _ this time?”

Damian blinks. “Wally?” He says.

Wally looks over at Damian and Bruce. “Oh my god.” He says. “oh my god I did it.” And then he promptly falls over and faints.

Five minutes and some smelling salts that Bruce went over and got from the manor later, Wally blinks up at them again.

“It's really sunny.” He groans.

“I know,” Damian says, standing above him. “West, what happened?”

Wally groans again, getting up slowly.

“Here,” Bruce says, handing him an energy drink. “Electrolytes. It'll make you feel better.”

Wally takes the bottle, and then stares at Bruce with wide eyes. “Oh man,” he says. “It's like someone photoshopped you, or something.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Bruce says.

Wally goes pink. “I mean– that is to say– sir, wow. I'm sorry. Please don't kick me off the team.”

“He can't kick you off the team. Only I can kick you off the team.” Damian says, crossing his arms. “West, _report_. What happened?”

Wally takes a large gulp of the energy drink. “The thing is, I'm not so great at the whole time travel thing yet. Like, uncle Barry rocks at it, obviously. But not me, so much, you know? This is actually kind of like, my sixth attempt.”

“Your _what_?” Damian says.

Wally laughs a little sheepishly, rubbing at his head. “Yeah. So the third time was like, the worst, dude. You will never believe what happened. I didn't stop soon enough, and the speed force kept accelerating for me, somehow, and I landed up in the _fifties_ or something, man. There was a tea party going on there,” he says, pointing to a gazebo in the far side of the lawn. He laughs. “Pretty sure I scared the shit outta some gardener.”

Damian sighs. “You have no idea how relieved I am, West. I didn't think you'd come.” 

Wally grins, putting his hands on his hips. “'course I'd come, dude. I’ll always have your back. We're like, _best_ friends.”

“Alright.” Damian says. “now you're pushing it.”

Wally grins. “There's the Damian I know. So how the hell did you get here? And what's your dad doing helping you out? He's not supposed to even know who you are. The timeline is _so_ fucked right now, if I told uncle Barry he'd have like, half a heart attack.”

“I know.” Damian frowns. “We have to fix it, West." He says, and then tells Wally everything.

Wally goes pale. “Reverse Flash. That guy gives me the creeps.”

“We need to go back to that night, and defeat him in the fight. Make it so that he never took me back to the past.” Damian says.

Wally's nodding. “Yeah, I know. But I can't fight Reverse Flash myself.”

Damian frowns. “What do you mean? You're–”

“Sixteen!” Wally says, “I'm a sixteen year old kid, Damian. I can barely even time travel without passing out. Reverse Flash is so much more powerful than me.”

“Then what do you propose we do?” Damian says.

“Call uncle Barry.” Wally says. “He's a grown up. He'll know what to do.”

“I'm always in favour of calling grown ups.” Bruce says.

“Oh my god,” Wally says, grinning at Bruce, “He's like what, twenty two? And he's already such a _dad_.”

“Excuse me?” Bruce says again, and Wally shakes his head again, grinning. 

“Look, Damian,” he says, turning to him, “I'm just gonna go call uncle Barry in 2017 and tell him to wait at Wayne manor about a minute before your past self and Reverse-Flash get there, kay? Be back in like, another three seconds.”

“Wait–” Damian starts to say, but he's already gone.

Two seconds later, he's back.

“Damn,” he says, grinning. “I'm getting better at this.” And then he claps a hand over his mouth.

“Nausea?” Damian says sympathetically.

Wally nods. He takes a few rapid, deep breaths. “Okay. Okay. I'm better.”

“You children are very strange.” Bruce says.

Wally just grins again. “You don't even know the half of it, my dude. Wait till you meet beast boy.” he holds out his hand for Damian. “Ready to go?”

Damian looks at Bruce. “Just a second, Wally.” He says. 

“Sure! Sure. Say, have you got like, any snacks or something? Cause I'm starving, dude. All this time travel stuff makes me anxious. And whenever I'm anxious I get super hungry. And also like, you know. Running burns carbs and stuff. I'd kill for a granola bar right now.”

“Here,” Damian says, handing the toast that Pennyworth had packed for him. “Just stop talking.”

“Sure thing.” Wally says, his words muffled due to the large quantities of bread already in his mouth.

Damian turns to Bruce. Bruce is looking down, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Well,” Damian says, “I guess this is goodbye.” 

“I guess.” Bruce says. He looks up, and he smiles at Damian. It's a sad smile. “You were right. I  _ will _ miss you. It's been nice, having you here. My life, it's not always so– so pleasant, and I don't usually allow myself to think about what could have been. And about family. And– and you changed that. For a while, anyway.”

Damian nods stiffly. 

Bruce hesitates for a second, and then goes over a hugs him, his arms large and warm around Damian. Damian closes his eyes. 

“I guess I'll see you in another ten years.” Bruce says.

“I'll see you in ten minutes.” Damian says.

Bruce chuckles. “You don't need to rub it in my face.” 

Damian looks up at his Father. “Go to the circus, today evening.” He says quietly. “And the long wait won't seem quite as long. Trust me.”

Bruce smooths some of Damian's hair back from his face. “If you're saying what I think you are, then the moment you go back and fix the timeline, I won't remember that any of this happened. I won't remember you, or any or my other children, and I won't remember anything about a circus.”

“You're Bruce Wayne.” Damian grins. “You won't let anything as small as a space-time paradox let you forget about me.”

Bruce smiles back, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I'll see you around, Damian. Goodbye.”

“Bye.” Damian says, and takes Wally's hand. “Let's go.” he says to Wally.

“Cool. Bye, Bruce!” Wally says, and in a rush of air and light and wind, they're gone.

The last thing Damian sees, is Bruce standing there, in the West lawn of Wayne manor, watching them go, with his hands in his pockets.

*

 

**06/30/2017**

 

They're swallowed and spit out by the Speed force, bruised and disoriented and gasping, in the West lawn of Wayne manor. Except it's night, now. 

The exact date and time that he was taken. 

“Quick,” Wally hisses, pulling Damian up to his feet.

“Sick,” Damian whispers, “I'm going to be sick.”

“You don't have time to be sick!” Wally whispers back. “You and Reverse flash should be here, in like, thirty seconds. I need to get you to the treeline, and out of sight from past self.” 

They hurry over to the treeline. 

“There!” Wally whispers, pointing to a figure near the trees. “I can see uncle Barry. He's waiting for us.” 

The figure moves towards them with alarming speed, and all of a sudden Barry Allen is examining them at superspeed, checking to see if they're injured or hurt anywhere. 

“Hey. Hey! Stop that, uncle Barry. We're fine. Chill, okay?” Wally says, swatting Barry away.

“Iris is gonna kill me if I let anything happen to you,” Barry mutters. He looks at Damian. “As for you, I really don't want to get on Batman's bad side. So stay behind the trees and stay out of trouble, okay? Let me handle this. That goes for you too, Wals. You're only acting as backup if I need it.”

“Cool cool.” Wally whispers. “Like I'm particularly excited about seeing reverse flash anyway.”

Just then, with a crackle of lightning and electricity, two figures shoot into Wayne Manor. Wally shoves Damian behind a tree. 

Damian peeks out from behind it to see what happens.

The smaller figure of the two, drops to the ground and starts to vomit into the grass.

Damian winces. He can't believe that's _him_. He looks so– so small and _alone_. Defeated.

The other figure laughs. “Your first time experiencing real speed, huh?” He says.

Barry Allen walks out of the tree line and into the lawn. “Thawne,” he says softly. “Leave the boy alone.”

In Damian's head, the strangest thing starts to happen. All of a sudden, he remembers that moment. Remembers the Flash telling Reverse Flash to leave him alone. But not as he sees it now. He remembers it hazily, like he heard it a week ago. 

Damian peeks out from behind the tree at the other figure. At the other Damian. He's looking up at the Flash, and he's starting to crawl towards him.

And Damian remembers doing that too, even though he knows for a fact that he didn't do it. Not the first time around, when there was no one to help him. His head starts to hurt like all hell.

“Flash,” Reverse Flash says, tilting his head. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Thawne, you don't want to do this.” Barry says.

“Oh, but I do.” Reverse Flash smiles. He runs towards Flash, and the Flash charges back, and suddenly it's a blur of yellow and red light. 

And Damian remembers that also. Remembers sitting in the grass, watching two speedsters fight. He clutches at his head.

Their fight is silent, fast enough that sound can't quite catch up to them, and all Damian and Wally can see are flashes of light and streaks and violent offshoots of lightning.

Damian feels someone shaking his shoulders. “Hey!” Wally says.

Damian stops clutching at his head. He's rapidly acquiring new memories, which is making it very hard to think. “What?” He says.

“I gotta go help,” Wally says. “Stay put, okay?” 

He says something else as well, but Damian doesn't notice, doesn't hear. His head hurts too much to try. 

Wally leaves, running towards the twin streaks of lightning with a crackle of lightning following after him as well. 

The silent battle rages on. Slowly but surely, Flash seems to be winning.

After a moment, he can hear someone crawling towards him. Towards the treeline. Damian opens his eyes. He doesn't have to look to know how it is. He remembers crawling towards the trees for shelter. He remembers having done it a week ago.

Damian turns around and looks his other self in the eye.

Two things happen in that moment.

Barry and Wally manage to defeat Reverse Flash in battle. Reverse Flash escapes. The three streaks of lightning shooting around the West lawn become two. 

There is a loud flash and an even louder bang and something very inscrutable and odd happens to the fabric of space-time. The two Damian Waynes hiding near the treeline become one.

Damian opens his eyes slowly, blinking against a light that isn't there anymore. It's dark again. Barry and Wally are staring at him.

“What happened?” He says.

Wally sits down next to him, looking concerned. “I have no idea.”

“I think you combined with your past self to preserve some kind of semblance of continuity in the time stream. Which is weird. You should have ceased to exist.” Barry says, frowning.

Damian feels alarmed. Ceasing to exist does not sound like something he would very much enjoy doing. “What?”

“Not you, as a whole. I mean the version of you that got sent to the past. The version of you that got saved by me from a near kidnapping should have been okay.”

“But– but, I remember everything. I remember 2004.” Damian says. “I remember seeing Bruce doing Tai Chi in the rain and Pennyworth with hair and the petunias and the social worker and I remember stabbing Morales in the eye.”

“You did _what_ now?” Wally says.

“But none of that stuff happens anymore. We caused it never to take place.” Barry says slowly. “Causal determinism dictates that you shouldn't remember it either.”

“Okay. My brain hurts,” Wally says.

Barry rubs at his chin, thinking. “I think,” he says slowly, “the speed force gave you a gift.” 

“A gift.” Damian repeats.

“Yeah. I think it let you keep your memories. It's alive, you know. The Speed force. It's a living, breathing thing. It works in strange ways.” He smiles. “Sometimes it confuses the hell out of me too.”

“Uh huh.” Damian says, unconvinced.

Barry offers a hand to Damian, and Damian takes it, getting up. “One time, I tried to interfere with the past. I went back in time to save my mother, and when I–”

“I know.” Damian says. “Father told me.”

“Then he'd have told you about the letter.” Barry says. “The letter his dad wrote for him.” 

“Yes,” Damian says.

“According to all the laws of Physics, that letter should have been destroyed. It should have ceased to exist the moment that alternative timeline where it was written did, right? And yet it's not. It's up there on the wall in the batcave, isn't it? A paradox in a wooden frame. That letter was a gift from the Speed force.” Barry smiles. “Your memories are a gift too.”

Damian frowns. “The Speed force is strange.”

Barry laughs. “Yeah.” He checks his wristwatch, and his smile flickers. “Crap. I'm late for dinner with Iris.” He looks at Wally. “I've got to go back to central city. Want a lift?”

“Hell yeah.” Wally says. “I'm not doing any more running for like, another month.”

“Wait,” Damian says. “What do I do now?”

Barry smiles again. “Go inside, Damian. Give your brothers a hug. Tell your dad you think he did too much Tai Chi in the rain in 2004. Get some sleep.” 

“That's it?”

“That's it.” Barry says. “Now if you don't mind, I really have to go. I might miss our reservations, and the last time that happened, Iris didn't talk to me for two days.” Barry grabs ahold of Wally's hand.

“Bye Damian!” Wally grins, and in a flash, they're gone.

Damian looks at the manor, squares up his shoulders, and starts to walk towards it.

 

*

 

Bruce frowns. He wakes up feeling strange. Like he's forgotten something.

He _has_ forgotten something. He wonders what. It feels important.

He's still thinking about it after he finishes his morning drills, and his push-ups and chin-ups and two mile run on the track. 

He sits down for breakfast, staring at his plate. It's right there, right at the back of his head. 

Alfred serves him breakfast, bacon and eggs and toast. 

“But he's a vegetarian,” Bruce says.

“Beg pardon?” Alfred says.

Bruce blinks. He has no idea where that came from. “Nothing. I don't know.”

He eats some of his toast glumly.

Alfred frowns at him. “Are you having a day again, master Wayne?”

Bruce frowns. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Who else said it?”

Bruce blinks again. He rubs at his eyes. “No one.” He says, and he knows he's saying the truth. “No one else said it.”

“At any rate,” Alfred says, laying out a newspaper in front of him, “I found something that might pique your interest,” he says, and he points to an advertisement next to an article about corruption in the justice system in Gotham.

Bruce reads the advertisement. “A circus, Al? Really?” 

But something tells him to go. 

So he does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been really busy for me and I'm so sorry I haven't had a chance to reply to all your lovely comments yet! I've read every single one of them, and I'll try to reply to all (most?) of them tomorrow.  
> Last chapter will also be up tomorrow.


	8. The Chandelier

Damian walks into the manor in the dead calm of the night, letting himself in quietly. The foyer and the hallways are dark, the lights switched off. All is quiet.

He walks up to the third floor slowly, careful to step over the creaky floorboards. Otherwise Pennyworth might wake up and ask him where he's been all this time. The thought of Pennyworth, _his_ Pennyworth sends a single streak of pure joy into his chest. They're _all_ here. His father. His brothers and his sister. His friends.

He stops walking up the steps suddenly, his foot paused mid-air.

His _dog_.

He grins, and runs the rest of the way up to the third floor, and then to his room. His large room on the third floor, and not some dinky guest bedroom in the other wing.

He opens the door, skidding narrowly to a stop.

“Titus,” he says, grinning. “Come here, boy.”

Titus looks at him groggily, blinking his large, liquid eyes. He's sprawled over Damian's bed, even though Pennyworth doesn't allow him to get on any of the beds or sofas. Damian always lets him up on his bed, though, when Pennyworth isn't looking. It's a secret.

He jumps onto the bed, laughing with delight at how excited Titus gets at the sudden motion, jumping all over Damian and licking his face with his rough, raspy tongue. 

“I missed you too, boy.” Damian says into his fur, holding him tight, his arms around Titus's neck.

Titus pants happily, nosing at Damian's hair and face. 

“I've had a really long week.” Damian whispers. “I'm going to tell you all about it, I promise. But I'm really tired now, so maybe in the morning, okay?”

Titus yawns, and Damian laughs. 

“I know,” he says. “Me too. Down, Titus.” 

Titus lays down on his belly, and Damian lies down in the small remaining area left unoccupied on the bed. 

He can feel his eyes growing heavy already, and he hasn't even taken his Robin suit off. He peels off the domino mask and the boots and the gauntlets, and decides that sleeping in the rest is fine for one night.

“Good night, Titus.” He whispers.

Titus sighs contently, exhaling a large gust of air out of his snout and right into Damian's face, making him giggle and hold onto his dog tighter.

He's _home_.

 

*

 

He wakes up late again. Titus is whining, scratching at the door, pleading to be let out. 

“Sorry, boy.” Damian says, half stumbling to the door, rubbing at his eyes. He opens the door and Titus shoots out of it like a bullet, running down the stairs and down to the grounds, probably to relieve himself. 

He whistles, walking to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and trying in vain to fix his hair, which is sticking up perpendicular to his scalp in certain areas. He grins at himself in the mirror.

He checks his phone, and he has three new messages from Jon. An email from the Teen Titans, and a missed call from Father. The phone is _not_ a flip phone. He finds that he's unable to stop smiling. He thinks of that mp3 player that he left in the glovebox of the Dodge Viper, and he laughs. 

He texts Jon back, and ignores the emails. They can wait.

He's still whistling when he saunters out the door, and down to the second floor, to Drake's room.

He opens the door without knocking. Drake is lying on his stomach, his legs akimbo and his hand clutched around his tablet. There's a large bandage wrapped around his bicep. 

He's snoring so contently that Damian wonders what kind of drugs Father pumped into him to get him to finally sleep.

Damian goes and sits on the edge of his bed. 

“Drake.” He says.

Drake doesn't stir. He's drooling slightly. Damian scrunches up his nose. He pokes at Drake's uninjured arm.

“Drake, are you awake?” He says.

Drake snores again. 

Damian sighs. “Fine. I'm just going to do this while you're sleeping, then.”

No reply. Damian rolls his eyes.

“Look.” He says. “You don't slow us down. During patrol, I mean. And I don't really know if I could best you in battle. But that doesn't matter, because there's more to me than fighting and training. Father told me that.”

Drake mumbles something in his sleep, turning over.

“Yes, I can see that you're agreeing with all my salient points.” He pauses. “And you should know that I have enormous amounts of empathy. But you're my brother, and if I don't make fun of you from time to time, who will?”

Drake goes on sleeping. Damian blinks.

“Very well.” He says, patting Drake's shoulder. “This was a good talk. We both learned a lot about ourselves, I feel. Don't you?”

A silence. 

“Great.” Damian says, getting up. “I feel the same.”

As he's leaving Drake's room, he runs headfirst into Grayson. 

“Dami!” Grayson grins, pulling him into a hug. He's holding a large duffle bag. He has a cut on his lip, and a black eye.

Damian stares. “What happened?”

“Oh, this?” Grayson says, pointing to his black eye, “Don't worry about it. Just got into a minor throwdown with some perp in 'haven. What's up? How come you're still in costume?”

“I fell asleep in it.” Damian says, looking down at his robin suit. “When did you come from Bludhaven?”

Grayson checks his watch. “Ah, just got here, actually. I had to drop these case files off to B.” He says, lifting his bag. “Got a bunch of new evidence on this guy, Andrés Elvira. You remember the Morales case?”

Damian blinks. “Unfortunately,” he says, “yes.”

“So Elvira was Morales junior's right hand man. The guys in Financials traced him to a shell company that he used to wire Pedro Morales a large amount of money. Like, we're talking in tens of millions here. So Bruce and I are hoping that if we track the paper trail a little further down the road we'll be able to dig up something.”

“I could help you with that,” Damian says slowly. Of all the coincidences in the world.

Grayson grins, ruffling Damian's hair. “‘course you can. We need all hands on deck. Tim's outta commission, and who else's got the smarts like him, huh?”

Damian smiles. “So you want to go see him?”

“Yeah, I heard from Alfred that he got shot yesterday. I thought I'd go and say hi first thing, and then go talk to Bruce about the case. And say hi to you.” Grayson grins. “But you beat me to it.”

“He's pretty out of it.” Damian says. “I poked him but he wasn't waking up. Anyway, I need to go talk to Father. Drake is pretty much a vegetable right now.” 

Grayson snorts. “I'll try my luck, I  guess. I'll see you at breakfast?” 

“Yes,” Damian says.

“Cool.” Grayson says, and starts to go into Drake's room.

Damian hesitates. “Grayson, wait.” He says.

“Yeah?” 

“Do you– do you remember anything about a crystal chandelier? It used to be up in the dining room.”

Grayson starts laughing. 

Damian stares. “What?”

“ _Remember_ it?” Grayson says. “Holy _shit_. Of _course_ I remember it. My life literally flashed before my eyes when I was on that thing, once.”

“You were _on_ it.” Damian says.

“Yeah. Hey! I was an acrobat. I had to find _some_ thing high enough to practice my jumps off of, right? Problem was that when I turned ten, I started getting a little heavier, and I did a jump once that took about half the chandelier down to the floor along with me.”

“You _broke_ the chandelier?” Damian says.

“No, I didn't break it. Well. Not really. A few of the crystals got. . . dislodged, is the thing. And some of them cracked.”

“Father must have been furious.”

Grayson leans against Drake's door, and grins. “Oh man. I thought he was going to send me back to St. Andrew's. I was so terrified that I hid from him for the entire day. I remember literally shaking in my shoes.”

“And then?” 

“And then I finally got the courage to tell him the truth. It was in the evening, I think. I couldn't even look him in the eye, you know. I was crying like a baby. But then– I don't know. The strangest thing happened.”

“What happened?” Damian says, curiously.

“Turns out he had a few spare crystals all along.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He probably knew I'd come to confess, cause he held out these unbroken crystals and said, _D_ _id something happen to the chandelier?_ I was so shocked.” Grayson shakes his head, grinning. “How did he know? It was so cool. I thought he was Houdini for like, a month after that, Dames.”

“But how  _ did _ he know?”

Grayson holds up his hands as if to indicate that he doesn't have the answers. “I have no idea. I didn't even know that we  _ had _ spare crystals for the chandelier. I remember him telling me it was custom made from France or Italy or something, so it didn't even add up. But he didn't send me back to St. Andrew's. He wasn't even mad.”

Damian goes still. Something incredible suddenly occurs to him.

What had Grayson said? Bruce had spare crystals, and he held them out and asked, _Did something happen to the chandelier?_ Like he didn't know either. Like someone had told him something had happened to it.

The spare crystals didn't make sense either. What chandelier came with spare parts?

_Causal determinism,_ Barry Allen had said. The idea that every event was necessitated by antecedent events. 

Antecedent events. Damian wondering about the crystal chandelier. Damian being told the story by Dick.

Spare crystals.

Damian closes his eyes for a moment, thinking. He opens them. “Grayson.” He says. “Where is the chandelier now?”

“I don't know. Bruce and Alfred put it away after that. Said I was going to fall again and break a leg. I think they put it away in the attic or something. Why?”

“And when did this happen? The exact date that you broke the crystals.”

Grayson furrows his brow, looking thoughtful. “Let's see. I remember that it was the weekend after some kind of party, cause there were streamers on the chandelier. That's why I slipped in the first place. I lost my grip on one of the ribbons. I think it was the day after Alfred's birthday, actually. So–”

“Tenth June.” Damian says, nodding. “Thank you, Grayson.” He starts to run down the hallway.

“What's going on?” He hears Grayson call out from behind him.

“I'll tell you later!” Damian yells back.

He runs back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and runs down to the third door on the left.

He knocks on the door. Father's study.

“Come in,” says a voice.

Damian quickly opens the door. “Bruce,” he says. “I need your help.”

Father frowns, looking up from the papers on his desk. “Did you just call me _Bruce?"_

“Oh,” Damian says. “I mean. Father. I need your help.”

“And why are you still wearing your suit? Have you just come back from patrol, now?”

“No, I fell asleep in it.”

“Why would–”

“Look,” Damian says. “I'll explain everything. But you _need_ to tell me where the chandelier that used to hang over the dining room is, now.”

“How do you know about that?” Father says. “You've never even seen it.”

“I said I would explain everything, didn't I?” Damian says.

Father frowns again. “It's in the attic.” He says.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Damian says. “Let's go.”

“To the attic?” 

“Yes,” Damian says, feeling very impatient. “To the attic.”

Father gets to his feet. “Damian, what–”

“Let's go!”

They go to the attic. Father hauls down the folding ladder and Damian climbs it quickly. “Come up,” he says when he's reached up, looking down at Father who's standing at the base of ladder. 

“What are you _doing_ , Damian?” Father says, looking very confused.

“Come up here and I'll explain.” Damian says, insistently.

Father climbs up the rungs one by one. “No one's been up here in a long time.” He grunts when he's up through the hatch, and in the attic. “I'm a little concerned about how stable the floor is.”

Damian sneezes. “And there's dust.” He says.

“Damian, what are we doing here?” Father says again, looking around at the trunks and cardboard boxes marked 'JASON: STORAGE’ marked in small, neat letters, or 'DICK’S RECORDS: DO NOT TOUCH’ written in a large, loopy scrawl. He peers into it. Empty. Grayson must have taken all of his tapes with him to Bludhaven.

At the very back of the room, he sees something covered by a cloth. A glint of a crystal underneath. The chandelier.

“Sit down,” Damian says to Father, pointing to a trunk. 

“Why?” Father says.

“You're going to need to sit down to hear this.”

Father sits down on one of the dusty trunks.

“Do you remember when Dick fell off the chandelier, and some of the crystals broke?”

“Yes.”

“And before he came to tell you what he'd done you found some spare crystals, right?”

Father is silent. “I didn't find them.” He says finally. “I just told Dick I'd always had them, because I wouldn't be able to explain it, otherwise. It happened so long back, I'd forgotten about it.” A pause. “I still don't fully understand what happened.” 

“Father,” Damian says, sitting next to him on the trunk. “I think I do.”

“Well?” Father says.

“Take the cloth off that chandelier,” Damian says. “And I'll tell you what we must do.”

He takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Wally. 

 

*

 

**06/10/2005**

 

Bruce is walking towards the pit in the East lawns when it happens. It's evening, and he's holding the weedcutter in his hands. Maybe if he's lucky, he can clear away another few square feet before he and Dick have to go for Patrol.

That's when he hears it. The loud _bang_. For a second, he's seized with a sudden terror; irrationally, he thinks it's a gunshot. Dick. Where's Dick? He has to find him, has to keep him safe.

But his senses come back to him a second later. The sound wasn't a gunshot. It was. . . something else. Something unlike anything Bruce has ever heard before. 

And it's didn't come from the direction of the manor, where Dick is. It came from the pit.

Bruce breaks into a run, sprinting until he reaches the pit. It looks fine. Normal. But there– there on the edge of the pit is a small, cardboard box. It looks innocent enough. On one of its sides, in large loopy handwriting, it says: ‘'DICK’S RECORDS: DO NOT TOUCH’. It's been crossed out, and now it reads, 'For Bruce Wayne. 10th June, 2005.’

Bruce frowns. Strange. 

He walks slowly over to the cardboard box, peering at it. Slowly, he opens one end.

Inside, there are crystals. 

Not just any crystals. He  _ knows _ these ones. They're the ones in the chandelier over the dining room. He frowns again. Did– did someone steal them and put them in a box. Is this some kind of practical joke? And Dick's records? What is that supposed to mean. Dick doesn't own any records. 

There's a note in the box. Bruce opens it. 

'To replace the broken ones.’ is all it says. 

“Uh, Bruce?” 

Bruce looks up. Dick is standing in front of him, looking pale and small. He's fidgeting with his hands.

“What's wrong?” Bruce says, putting the note back in the box.

“I–” Dick sighs. His eyes grow wet, and he starts to sniffle. “Look, I'm really sorry, okay? I didn't mean to do it, and now you're gonna be so mad and–”

“Dick, slow down.” Bruce says, getting up from the edge of the pit. “What happened?”

Dick covers his face with his hands. “I was just practicing, and– and–”

Bruce looks at him. He looks at the box. 

“Dick,” Bruce says slowly. “Did something happen to the chandelier?”

Dick bursts into tears. “I'm sorry!” He says. “B, I didn't mean to and now–”

“Hey,” Bruce says quietly, putting an arm around him. “It's okay. Look, I have spares, see? It's fine.”

Dick sniffles. “What?”

“Yeah. We can replace whatever broke.” Bruce says softly. “You don't need to cry.”

Dick rubs at his eyes. “But– how?” He says, mystified.

Bruce looks at the cardboard box. _I don't know,_ he thinks.

“Let's go back in, okay? I'll put the new crystals in. It'll be good as new.” He says instead, and scoops up the cardboard box, and takes ahold of Dick's hand.

“Bruce,” Dick says in awe, as they start to walk back towards the manor, “you're magic.”

 

*

 

Father and Damian sit on the trunk in the attic, and stare at the chandelier that's now missing a few crystals. 

“I think we should put it back up,” Father says. “No one's going to notice a few missing crystals.”

“Yes,” Damian says.

A brief silence. 

“It's a good thing you remembered which box you found it in.” Damian says.

“Dick's records. I didn't get what that meant for so long. And then Dick turned sixteen and started listening to Ska music.” Father says. 

They both wince. 

“I don't miss that phase at all.” Father says, and Damian grins.

“Damian,” Father says, his next few words careful. “I'm– sorry. I said some pretty harsh things, last night. I was wrong.”

“No, you were right,” Damian says. “I was acting like a child.”

“You _are_ a child.” Father says gently. “It's okay to be a kid once in a while.”

“I was being a brat,” Damian says.

Father smiles. “You were being. . . slightly unreasonable. But I shouldn't have said those things.” He puts an arm around Damian. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” Damian says, and lets Father hug him for a moment, curling up into his frame.

“And now you're going to tell me what happened.”

“What do you mean?” Damian says.

“I’m not stupid, Damian. Where did you go?” Father says.

Damian sighs. “It's a long story.”

Father looks at him, his mouth twitching upward. “Damian, we just completed the latter end of a never ending causal time-loop, I got answers to a question I've had for twelve years,  _ and _ I've finished all of my paperwork before breakfast. Trust me when I say that I'm not doing  _ anything _ else today. I have the time.”

“Fine,” Damian says. “But it's a really long story. And really boring. Nothing happens. No one gets stabbed or anything.”

Father smiles properly this time, and it reaches all the way up to his eyes, which go warm. He smooths back Damian's hair from his face, just like he'd once done thirteen years ago.

“Anyone ever told you that you're a bad liar?” He says.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. This has been a joy to write.   
> I'm lemonadegarden on Tumblr. Come talk to me!


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